Mon coeur volage, dit-elle,
     N’est pas pour vous, garcon;
     Est pour un homme de guerre,
     Qui a barbe au menton. 
     Lon, Lon, Laridon.

     Qui ports chapeau a plume,
     Soulier a rouge talon,
     Qui joue de la flute,
     Aussi du violon. 
     Lon, Lon, Laridon.

Balmawhapple could hold no longer, but broke in with what he called a d—­d good song, composed by Gibby Gaethroughwi’t, the piper of Cupar; and, without wasting more time, struck up,—­

     It’s up Glenbarchan’s braes I gaed,
     And o’er the bent of Killiebraid,
     And mony a weary cast I made,
     To cuittle the muirfowl’s tail.

[SUUM CUIQUE.  This snatch of a ballad was composed by Andrew MacDonald, the ingenious and unfortunate author of VIMONDA.]

The Baron, whose voice was drowned in the louder and more obstreperous strains of Balmawhapple, now dropped the competition, but continued to hum, Lon, Lon, Laridon, and to regard the successful candidate for the attention of the company, with an eye of disdain, while Balmawhapple proceeded,—­

     If up a bonny black-cock should spring,
     To whistle him down wi’ a slug in his wing,
     And strap him on to my lunzie string,
     Right seldom would I fail.

After an ineffectual attempt to recover the second verse, he sang the first over again; and, in prosecution of his triumph, declared there was ’more sense in that than in all the Derry-DONGS of France, and Fifeshire to the boot of it.’  The Baron only answered with a long pinch of snuff, and a glance of infinite contempt.  But those noble allies, the Bear and the Hen, had emancipated the young laird from the habitual reverence in which he held Bradwardine at other times.  He pronounced the claret SHILPIT, and demanded brandy with great vociferation.  It was brought; and now the Demon of Politics envied even the harmony arising from this Dutch concert, merely because there was not a wrathful note in the strange compound of sounds which it produced.  Inspired by her, the Laird of Balmawhapple, now superior to the nods and winks with which the Baron of Bradwardine, in delicacy to Edward, had hitherto checked his entering upon political discussion, demanded a bumper, with the lungs of a Stentor, ’to the little gentleman in black velvet who did such service in 1702, and may the white horse break his neck over a mound of his making!’

Edward was not at that moment clear-headed enough to remember that King William’s fall, which occasioned his death, was said to be owing to his horse stumbling at a mole-hill; yet felt inclined to take umbrage at a toast, which seemed, from the glance of Balmawhapple’s eye, to have a peculiar and uncivil reference to the Government which he served.  But, ere he could interfere, the Baron of Bradwardine had taken up the quarrel.  ‘Sir,’ he said, ’whatever my sentiments, TANQUAM PRIVATUS,