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If e'er ye try to speel the brae
Where poets lilt the melting lay; 7. 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,
LETTER TO ALEXANDER GIBSON HUNTER, ESQ.
No. 1, LOWER GUILDFORD STREET,
London, 20th December 1805. S1R,—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 BROTHER SNUFF-Taker.
A Dialogue on the Virtues of Snuff.
To hansel the new year ;
Sometimes a drap o' Fairntosh .si
The heart o man can cheer. !!. Yet troth its naething o' itsel,
Though this be right gude stuff; I wadna gi'e a button fort
Without a pinch o' snuff...'
O'Burgundy, or bright Champaigne,
They mak' an unco din;
Maun surely be a sin.:
'Tis but poor shilpit stufff; 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
Which a' our waes beguile; i;
An' fortune looks but gruff, That chield maun be a silly lown:
Wha is nae cheer'd by snuff.
Wi' sic a bonnie theme;
O'this braw plant I dream.
What's a' the med'cines that are ta'en,
An' doctors' puson'd stuff! I wadna gi' a grain for ane,
Elen 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.'.
O love, an' sic like stuff ;
A cannie pinch o' snuff.
How snuff the brain can clear,
In praise o't ilka year.
They're naething else but buff;
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 ;
Tho' wives should tak’ the gee...
An' canty we might be,
About my dear Rappee.
It sweetens care at ilka hand,
It cures us o' our pains ;
Did snuff ne'er clear their brains ?
In your Elysian heaven;
Scots MAG. 1806.
GEORGE FREDERICK COOKE IN DUBLIN-MR.
MATTHEWS, AND MRS. BURNS.
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