open forehead.
Buirdly-bowk—athletic frame.
Clashes—idle gossip.
Couping—overturning.
Cummer—comrade.
Curfuffle—agitation.
De'il gaed o'er Jock Wabster—everything went topsy-turvy.
Dour carle—rugged old man.
Dreed the day—done this day.
Droghling and coghling—puffing and blowing.
Ewest—nearest.
Fire flaught—flash of lightning.
Forbears—forefathers.
Fusht—tush.
Gared—made.
Gliff—fright.
Gliffing—very short time.
Gloaming—twilight.
Glowering—gazing.
Gy—rope.
Glunch—gloomy.
Harry—plunder.
Ingle—fire.
Ill—difficult.
Ilka—every.
Kemping—striving.
Laid i' the mouls—laid in the grave.
Low—flame.
Loaning—lane.
Luckie—dame.
Latch—mire.
Mirk—dark.
Out-taken—excepting.
Pow—head.
Powtering—groping.
Prigged—earnestly entreated.
Rath—quick.
Rede—pray.
Riggin—roof.
Sain—bless.
Sark fu' o' sair banes—sound beating.
Scoupit—scampered.
Shank yoursell's awa—take yourselves off.
Shealing—rude cottage.
Show 'em the cauld shouther—appear cold and reserved.
Skirl—shrill cry.
Sleuth-hounds—blood-hounds.
Speir—ask.
Steiked—shut.
Steer—injure.
Sunkie—low stool.
Threep—threaten.
Tirled at the door pin—knocked at the door.
Touzle out—ransack.
Tyke—dog.
Wampish—toss about.
Worriecows—hobgoblins.
Wuss—wish.
THE INDIAN MAIDEN'S SONG,
The youth I love is far away.
O'er forest, river, brake, and glen;
And distant, too, perchance the day,
When I shall see him once again.
Nine moons have wasted. 2 since we met,
How sweetly, then, the moments flew!
Methinks the fairy vision yet
Portrays the joy that ZEMLA knew.
In list'ning to the tale of strife,
When Shone AZALCO'S prowess bright,
The strange adventures of his life,
That gave me such unmix'd delight.
That dream of happiness is past!
For ever fled those magic charms!
The cruel moment came at last,
That tore AZALCO from my arms!
What bitter pangs my bosom rent,
When he my sight no longer bless'd!
To some lone spot my steps I bent,
My secret sorrows there confess'd.
My sighs, alas! were breath'd unheard,
Could aught on earth dispel my grief?
Nor smiling sun, nor minstrel bird,
Can give this aching heart relief.
Since he I love is far away,
O'er forest, river, brake, and glen,
And distant, too, perchance the day,
When I shall see him once again.
MERRY CHRISTMAS!
"Do you look for ale and cakes here, you rude rascals?"
Since, my dear readers, even in this season of busy festivity I can spare a few moments to write for your gratification, I venture to hope you will spare a few to read for mine.
And so here we are, once again on tiptoe for a merry Christmas and a happy new year. My good friends, especially my fair friends, permit me to wish you both. Yes, Christmas is here—Christmas, when winter and jollity, foul weather and fun, cold winds and hot pudding, good frosts and good fires, are at their meridian! Christmas! With what dear associations is it fraught! I remember the time when I thought that word cabalistical; when, in the gay moments of youth, it seemed to me a mysterious term for every thing that is delightful; and such is the force of early associations, that even now I cannot divest myself of them. Christmas has long ceased to be to me what it once was; yet do I even now hail its return with pleasure, with enthusiasm. But, alas! how differently is it viewed, not only by the same individual at different periods of life, but by different individuals of the same age; by the rich and poor, the wretched and the happy, the pampered and the penniless!
To proceed to the object of this paper, which is simply to throw together a few casual hints, connected with the period. I would beg my reader's attention, in the first place, to an odd superstition, countenanced by Shakspeare, and which, if he happens to lie awake some night, (say with the tooth-ache—what better?—for that purpose I mean,) he will have an opportunity of verifying. The passage which contains it is in Hamlet and exhibits at once his usual wildness of imagination, and a highly praiseworthy religious
"Till now some nine moons wasted."—SHAKSPEARE.
