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If e'er ye try to speel the brae
Where poets lilt the melting lay;
But if ye'll tak' a friend's advice,
I'll gi'e ye't in a verra trice.

When younkers differ on the green,
Ne'er fash your thumb, nor step between,
Or (as my great gran'-mither spake)
Ye'll may be get the redding straik.
Attend your horses and your plough,
This done, ye just do weel enough;
When Winter bites wi' tempests flisky,
Cowp aff a gill o' Cuttie's whisky;
And ay remember, auld or young,
To keep a clean weel scrapit tongue.
If at a chance, unlucky time,
Ye're whiskify'd to try a rhyme,
Ye'll mak' a shift 'mang gipsy lasses,
Altho' ye dinna ken Parnassus;
And tho' your poetry be nil hoc,
Ye're sure to shine at Cuttie's hillock.
Benlomond-Law, April 16, 1805.

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SIR,-Though now a stranger in the "Land of Cakes," the amor patriæ beats strong in my bosom,

and I feel the same degree of philanthropy towards my snuff-taking countrymen, as when we were wont to prime noses together. The comforts of your large and well-replenished horn, zested by your humorous and facetious conversation, are delightful to my recollection.

As a countryman and brother snuff-taker, I doubt not but that you will receive with pleasure any thing in praise of the all-powerful and never-enough-tobe-extolled plant. I therefore send you the following poem, which I received from a friend last New Year's day; and as it appears to me worthy of the subject to which it is dedicated, I think it a pity that it should be hid in obscurity, more especially as I am afraid there are many not sufficiently aware of the all-soothing comforts arising from "a cannie pinch o' snuff."

What would you think, therefore, of giving it a place in your very seful and much read Magazine next month, as a New Year's gift to all brother snuff-takers. Should you think proper to confer this honour upon it, it is at your service, from your sincere and obedient servant,


A Dialogue on the Virtues of Snuff.


Come, nibour Tam, we'll tak' a glass,
To hansel the new year;

Sometimes a drap o' Fairntosh 1,5

The heart o' man can cheer!! Yet troth its naething o' itsel,

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Though this be right gude stuff;

I wadna gi'e a button for't

Without a pinch o' snuff.

O' Burgundy, or bright Champaigne,
They mak' an unco din;
To gi'e sae meikle gear for drink
Maun surely be a sin.:
An' after a' the braggarts say,
'Tis but poor shilpit stuff;

I wadna tak' a gallon o't

For a'e guid mull o' snuff.

Ye wadna weary, nibour Tam,
Were I to tak' a while

To roose the virtues o' this plant,
Which a' our waes beguile;
For when a bodie's sair cast down,
An' fortune looks but gruff,
That chield maun be a silly lown
Wha is nae cheer'd by snuff.


Weary!-dear man, that canna be,
Wi' sic a bonnie theme;

I lo'e't sae weel, that ilka night

O' this braw plant I dream.

What's a' the med'cines that are taʼen,

An' doctors' puson'd stuff?

I wadna gi' a grain for ane,

'E'en o' the warst, o' snuff.

Didna the mirkie night come on,
When I maun wander hame,

Like Virgil's shepherds, we might sing,
The laurel to obtain.

They sang o' Philadas', and flames, i
O' love, an' sic like stuff;
While we life's dearest comfort sing,
A cannie pinch o' snuff.


Surely had honest Virgil kenn'd
How snuff the brain can clear,
A cantie ode he wad ha'e penn'd
In praise o't ilka year.
What signifies your sangs o' love?
They're naething else but buff;
The jades may a' be guid enough,
But nae sae guid as snuff.

There's Meg the wife's a dainty quean,
An' keeps a' things fu' tight,
But then she aye sae fashes me
Whene'er my nose I dight:
In troth, her jibes I canna bear,
She gars me tak' the huff,

When saucily she cries, "Gudeman,
You're owre the lugs in snuff."

But, Tam, we e'en maun bide wi't a',
Though jibed up we be;

The sneeshen-mull we still maun ca',
Tho' wives should tak' the gee.
I lo'e my Maggie passing weel,
An' canty we might be,

Did nae she haunt me like a deil
About my dear Rappee.

It sweetens care at ilka hand,
It cures us o' our pains;
What wad the learned doctors doe,

Did snuff ne'er clear their brains?
Then, oh! ye gods, be kind to me
In your Elysian heaven;

Should I but ance, an weel, get there,
Treat me wi' Thirty-Seven!!!

SCOTS MAG. 1806.



MR. COOKE, now thirty-eight years of age, and having been seventeen years a player, during many of which he stood forward as the hero of the pro

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