So, friend, we're not the folks to shrink
From the duty of giving you something to drink,
And a matter of money to put in your poke;
But, as for the guilders, what we spoke
Of them, as you very well know, was in joke.
Beside, our losses have made us thrifty;
A thousand guilders! Come, take fifty!"

The Piper's face fell, and he cried,
"No trifling! I can't wait, beside!
I've promised to visit by dinner-time
Bagdad, and accept the prime

Of the Head-Cook's pottage, all he's rich in,
For having left, in the Caliph's kitchen,
Of a nest of scorpions no survivor-
With him I proved no bargain-driver,
With you, don't think I'll bate a stiver !
And folks who put me in a passion
May find me pipe to another fashion."

"How?" cried the Mayor, "d'ye think I'll brook
Being worse treated than a Cook?

Insulted by a lazy ribald

With idle pipe and vesture piebald ?

You threaten us, fellow? Do your worst,

Blow your pipe there till you burst!"

Once more he stepped into the street;

And to his lips again

Laid his long pipe of smooth straight cane;
And ere he blew three notes (such sweet
Soft notes as yet musician's cunning
Never gave the enraptured air)

There was a rustling, that seemed like a bustling
Of merry crowds justling, at pitching and hustling,
Small feet were pattering, wooden shoes clattering,
Little hands clapping, and little tongues chattering,
And, like fowls in a farm-yard when barley is scattering,
Out came the children running.

All the little boys and girls,

With rosy cheeks and flaxen curls,

And sparkling eyes and teeth like pearls,

Tripping and skipping, ran merrily after

The wonderful music with shouting and laughter.

The Mayor was dumb, and the Council stood
As if they were changed into blocks of wood,
Unable to move a step, or cry

To the children merrily skipping by-
And could only follow with the eye
That joyous crowd at the Piper's back.
But how the Mayor was on the rack,
And the wretched Council's bosoms beat,
As the Piper turned from the High street
To where the Weser rolled its waters
Right in the way of their sons and daughters
However he turned from South to West,
And to Koppelberg Hill his steps addressed,
And after him the children pressed;
Great was the joy in every breast.

"He never can cross that mighty top!

He's forced to let the piping drop,

And we shall see our children stop!"

When lo, as they reached the mountain-side,
A wondrous portal opened wide,

As if a cavern was suddenly hollowed;

And the Piper advanced, and the children followed; And when all were in to the very last,

The door in the mountain-side shut fast.

Did I say, all? No! one was lame,

And could not dance the whole of the way;

And in after years, if you would blame

His sadness, he used to say,

"It's dull in our town since my playmates left!

I can't forget that I'm bereft

Of all the pleasant sights they see,

Which the Piper also promised me;

For he led us, he said, to a joyous land,

Joining the town, and just at hand,

Where waters gushed and fruit-trees grew,

And flowers put forth a fairer hue,

And everything was strange and new ;

The sparrows were brighter than peacocks here,
And their dogs outran our fallow deer,

And honey-bees had lost their stings;
And horses were born with eagles' wings;
And just as I became assured

My lame foot would be speedily cured,
The music stopped, and I stood still,
And found myself outside the Hill,
Left alone against my will,

To go now limping as before,

And never hear of that country more!"

Alas, alas, for Hamelin !

There came into many a burgher's pate
A text which says, that Heaven's Gate
Opes to the Rich at as easy rate

As the needle's eye takes a camel in !
The Mayor sent East, West, North, and South,
To offer the Piper by word of mouth,
Wherever it was men's lot to find him,
Silver and gold to his heart's content,
If he'd only return the way he went,
And bring the children behind him.
But when they saw 'twas a lost endeavour,
And Piper and dancers were gone for ever,
They made a decree that lawyers never

Should think their records dated duly
If, after the day of the month and year,
These words did not as well appear,

"And so long after what happened here
On the twenty-second of July,
Thirteen hundred and seventy-six :"
And the better in memory to fix
The place of the Children's last retreat,
They called it, the Pied Piper's Street--
Where any one playing on pipe or tabor,
Was sure for the future to lose his labour.
Nor suffered they hostelry or tavern

To shock with mirth a street so solemn ;
But opposite the place of the cavern

They wrote the story on a column,
And on the great church-window painted
The same, to make the world acquainted
How their children were stolen away;
And there it stands to this very day.
And I must not omit to say
That in Transylvania there's a tribe

Of alien people that ascribe

The outlandish ways and dress

On which their neighbours lay such stress,
To their fathers and mothers having risen
Out of some subterraneous prison,
Into which they were trepanned
Long time ago in a mighty band

Out of Hamelin town in Brunswick land,
But how or why, they don't understand.

So, Willy, let you and me be wipers

Of scores out with all men-especially pipers!
And, whether they pipe us free from rats or from mice,
If we've promised them aught, let us keep our promise!

JEAN FINLATER'S LOUN.-(William Anderson.)

THE winter was lang, an' the seed time was late,
An' the cauld month o' March sealed Tam Finlater's fate;
He dwin'd like a sna' wreath till sometime in June,
Then left Jean a widow, wi' ae raggit loun.

Jean scrapit a livin' wi' weavin' at shanks

Jock got into scrapes-he was aye playin' pranks;

Frae the Dee to the Don he was fear'd roun' the toun-
A reckless young scamp was Jean Finlater's loun.

Jock grew like a saugh on a saft, boggy brae—
He dislikit the school, and car'd mair for his play;
Ony mischief that happened, abroad or at hame,
Whaever was guilty, Jock aye got the blame.
Gin a lantern or lozen was crackit or broke,
Nae ane i' the toun got the wite o't, but Jock;
If a dog was to hang, or a kitlin to droon,
They wad cry, "Gie the job to Jean Finlater's loun".

He rappit the knockers―he rang a' the bells-
Sent dogs doun the causeway wi' pans at their tails:
The dykes o' the gardens an' orchards he scaled-
The apples an' berries, an' cherries he stealed.
Gin a claise rope was cuttit, or pole ta'en awa',
The neighbours declared it was Jock did it a';
Wi' his thum' at his nose, street or lane he ran doun-
A rigwoodie chiel was Jean Finlater's loun.

He pelted the peatmen, e'en wi' their ain peats

Pu'd hair frae their horse tails, then laughed at their threats; An' on Christmas-nicht, frae the Shiprow to Shore,

He claikit wi' sowens ilka shutter and door.

We hae chairs in our college for law and theology;
If ane had been vacant for trick or prankology,
Without a dissent ye'd hae votit the gown,

To sic an adept as Jean Finlater's loun.

On the forenoons o' Fridays he aften was seen
Coupin' country fowk's carts upside down i' the Green.
An', where masons were workin', without ony fear
He shoudit wi' scaffoldin' planks ower their meer.
To harrie birds' nests he wad travel for miles,
Ding owre dykes an' hedges, an' brak doun the stiles,
Swing on gentlemen's yetts, or their palin's pu' doun;
Tricks and mischief were meat to Jean Finlater's loun.

He vext Betty Osley, who threatened the law-
Ritchie Marchant wad chase him an' had him in awe;
Frae the Hardgate to Fittie he aye was in scrapes,
An' a' body wondered how Jock made escapes.
Jean said he was royet, that she maun aloo,
But he wad grow wiser the aulder he grew;
She aye took his part against a' body roun',
For she kent that her Jock was a kind-hearted loun.
At seventeen, Jock was a stout, strappin' chiel,
He had left aff his pranks, an' was now doin' weel;
In his face there was health, in his arm there was pith,
An' he learned to be baith a farrier an' smith.

His character, noo, was unstained wi' a blot,

His early delinquencies a' were forgot,

Till the weel-keepit birthday of Geordie cam' roun',
Which markit the fate o' Jean Finlater's loun.

The fire-warks were ower, an' the bonfire brunt done,
An' the crowd to Meg Dickie's gaed seekin' mair fun;
They attackit the White Ship, in rear an' in front-
Took tables and chairs, whilk they broke an' they brunt.
Jock couldna resist it-he burnt an' he broke-
Some sax were made prisoners—amang them was Jock;
Ten days in jail, an' his miseries to croun,
Bread an' water was fare for Jean Finlater's loun.