Heron Election Ballad, No.  IV.

     The Trogger. 
     Tune—­“Buy Broom Besoms.”

     Wha will buy my troggin, fine election ware,
     Broken trade o’ Broughton, a’ in high repair?

     Chorus—­Buy braw troggin frae the banks o’ Dee;
     Wha wants troggin let him come to me.

     There’s a noble Earl’s fame and high renown,
     For an auld sang—­it’s thought the gudes were stown—­
     Buy braw troggin, &c.

     Here’s the worth o’ Broughton in a needle’s e’e;
     Here’s a reputation tint by Balmaghie. 
     Buy braw troggin, &c.

     Here’s its stuff and lining, Cardoness’ head,
     Fine for a soger, a’ the wale o’ lead. 
     Buy braw troggin, &c.

     Here’s a little wadset, Buittle’s scrap o’ truth,
     Pawn’d in a gin-shop, quenching holy drouth. 
     Buy braw troggin, &c.

     Here’s an honest conscience might a prince adorn;
     Frae the downs o’ Tinwald, so was never worn. 
     Buy braw troggin, &c.

     Here’s armorial bearings frae the manse o’ Urr;
     The crest, a sour crab-apple, rotten at the core. 
     Buy braw troggin, &c.

     Here’s the worth and wisdom Collieston can boast;
     By a thievish midge they had been nearly lost. 
     Buy braw troggin, &c.

     Here is Satan’s picture, like a bizzard gled,
     Pouncing poor Redcastle, sprawlin’ like a taed. 
     Buy braw troggin, &c.

     Here’s the font where Douglas stane and mortar names;
     Lately used at Caily christening Murray’s crimes. 
     Buy braw troggin, &c.

     Here is Murray’s fragments o’ the ten commands;
     Gifted by black Jock to get them aff his hands. 
     Buy braw troggin, &c.

     Saw ye e’er sic troggin? if to buy ye’re slack,
     Hornie’s turnin chapman—­he’ll buy a’ the pack. 
     Buy braw troggin, &c.

Complimentary Versicles To Jessie Lewars

     The Toast

     Fill me with the rosy wine,
     Call a toast, a toast divine: 
     Giveth me Poet’s darling flame,
     Lovely Jessie be her name;
     Then thou mayest freely boast,
     Thou hast given a peerless toast.

     The Menagerie

     Talk not to me of savages,
     From Afric’s burning sun;
     No savage e’er could rend my heart,
     As Jessie, thou hast done: 
     But Jessie’s lovely hand in mine,
     A mutual faith to plight,
     Not even to view the heavenly choir,
     Would be so blest a sight.

     Jessie’s illness

     Say, sages, what’s the charm on earth
     Can turn Death’s dart aside! 
     It is not purity and worth,
     Else Jessie had not died.

     On Her Recovery

     But rarely seen since Nature’s birth,
     The natives of the sky;
     Yet still one seraph’s left on earth,
     For Jessie did not die.