266

AND ENDEAVOURING TO REPLUME HIMSELF.

Shepherd. Wushin, a' in vain, that they wad but tak a lesson frae his fate! A' in vain, sirs; for even let a spectre come frae the sewer to forewarn them o' their doom, yet wunna they keep their tongue within their bills, but wull keep gapin, and hissin, and gabblin on till the end o' the chapter, which, aiblins, consists o' sic a catastrophe at Awmbrose's, sir, as will be remembered to the latest posterity, and, translated intil a thousan' languages, be perused by all people that on earth do dwell, lang after the Anglo-Scotch, and the ScotoEnglish, have been baith dead tongues. Example's lost on a' Fules-feathered and unfeathered—and that's aye been an argument wi' me-excepp in cases o' verra rare culprits— again' capital punishments.

North. 'Tis said the Gawpus of the Ghost

Shepherd. You mean the Ghost of the Gawpus

North. -has been seen in Edinburgh. The Black Cook of this establishment, James, is afraid to sleep by herself Shepherd. Canna she get Tappytoorie, or the PechTickler. Hush-hush-James.

North. You know all feathers are among her perquisites— and she told King Pepin, that, t'other night, on lifting up the lid of the chest where that golden fleece reposed, among the plumage of inferior fowls, lo, the Ghost of the Gander, spurred on by instinctive passion, abhorrent of his nudity, insanely struggling to replume himself

Shepherd. Haw-haw-haw! —and hopping about in the chest, amaist as roomy as a Minister's Girnel,' like a chiel risin half-drunk in the mornin, and wha havin gotten ane o' his legs intil the breeks, fin's it a'thegither ayont his capacity to get in the ither, but keeps stoiterin and stacherin, and tumblin, outower the floor frae wa' to wa', for a lang while, dour on an impossible achievement, and feenally fa'in backarts on a sack, wi' nae mair howp o' maisterin his velveteens in this warld, than in the next o' insurin his salvation.

Tickler. O thou Visionary!

North. Poor soul! in her situation, such an adventure-
Shepherd. Her situation? You're no serious, sir?

North. Too true, James. In her fright she let fall the lid -nor has she since had courage, his majesty informs me, to uplift it.

1 Girnel-a large chest for holding meal.

THE TERROR OF HIS NAME.

267

Tickler. The Ghost of the Gander will be smothered. He had better have kept in the sewer.

North. In future ages, James, generations of men seeing the Ghost of the Glasgow Gander, will vainly believe that in the nineteenth century all Ganders were of his size

Shepherd. Ay-that there were giants in our days. Tickler. He will cause great disturbance in Ornithology. Shepherd. Amang the tribe Anseres. Compared wi' him, the geese o' the three thousandth 'ill dwinnle doun to dyucks. North. In some future Demonology, the philosopher will endeavour to reduce him to ordinary dimensions, nay, even to prove him—all in vain—to be a mere phantom of the imagination.

Shepherd. Yet, sirs, mithers and nourices wull hush the babbies on their breists wi' the cry o' "the Ganner! - the Ganner!" "gin you wunna lie quate, ye vile yaummerin imp, I'll gie ye to the Ghost o' the great Glasgow Ganner!" Na -tunes 'ill be made to eemage forth his gabble, by the Webers o' unborn time-and Theatres be thick wi' folk, as trees wi’ craws, to hear, on the hundredth nicht o' its performance, a maist unearthly piece o' music frae a multitudinous orchestra, ca'd the "Ganner's Chorus ! "

Tickler. I am sorry he was slaughtered. He would have been an incomparable chimney-sweep.

Shepherd. To have admitted him, whatna flue!

Tickler. Come, North, cut the subject short with a song. Give us the Ghost of the Gander-a Tale of Terror-after the fashion of Mat Lewis. Poor Mat! he was a man of geniusnow how forgotten!

North. I'm a little hoarse-
Shepherd. A little horse?

Tickler. That's always the affectation of you great singers. North. Pray, Tickler, which, to your ear, is the more musical of the two, the gabble of a Gander, or the braying of a Jackass? Shepherd. Dinna answer him, Mr Tickler, for he's only wushin to get aff the sang.

Tickler. "Twould be bad, boorish manners, James, not to give an answer to a civil question. I prefer the Gander by sunrise from the sea-the Jackass, when that luminary is setting behind the mountains.

Shepherd. What luminary ?

268

BRAYING-ASS AND MULE.

Tickler. Neither the Gander nor the Jackass, James, but the Sun. Elated by the glowing charms of the rosy morn, my soul delights in the gabble of geese on a common—but as I wander pensive at to-fall of the day, then, for love or money, your Jackass, with ears, legs, lungs, and jaws, all "stepping westwards," and enacting, in a solo, for his own enjoyment, the Vicar of Bray, worthy to be a Bishop.

Shepherd. What say ye to a Mule ?

North. The young American, in his most amusing volumes, A Year in Spain,1 has exhausted the subject.

Shepherd. What's your wull, sir?

North. "I hate a mule," quoth he, "most thoroughly, for there is something abortive in everything it does, even to its very bray. An ass, on the contrary, has something hearty and whole-souled about it. Jack begins his bray with a modest whistle, rising gradually to the top of his powers, like the progressive eloquence of a well-adjusted oration, and then as gradually declining to a natural conclusion; but the mule commences with a voice like thunder, and then, as if sorry for what he has done, he stops like a bully when throttled in the midst of a threat, or a clown who has begun a fine speech, and has not courage to finish it."

Shepherd. Haw! haw! haw!

That's capital, man.

North. As Alexander of Macedon said of old, that had he not been Alexander, he would have wished to be Diogenes, so, we may presume, had the hero of Glasgow not been a Gander, he would have chosen to be a

Tickler. Mule or Jackass?

Shepherd. Ay-that is the question. Each
North. Alternately-

Shepherd. Day about.

North. On Tuesday, beginning his bray with a modest whistle, and throughout his performance just such an original as the lively American has drawn the animated picture of—on Friday, like a bully throttled in the midst of a threat

Tickler. And cudgeled along the Trongate

North. Till his back was like the Edinburgh Review.
Tickler. The Blue and Yellow.

1 A Year in Spain, which was successfully republished in England, was written by the late Alexander Slidell (afterwards Mackenzie) of the U. S. Navy-American Editor.

SONG THE GHOST OF THE GANDER.

North. Or Blackwood's Magazine.

Tickler. A lively green.

Shepherd. Needing nae certificat.

Tickler. But no more nonsense.

Now for your song.

(NORTH-clearing his pipes with a caulker—sings.)

THE GHOST OF THE GANDER.

Oh! what is that figure, and what can it mean,
That comes forth in the stillness of night—
That near the Guse-dubs like a phantom is seen-
That haunts the Salt-market, the Gorbals, the Green,
And avoids the approach of the light?

'Tis the Ghost of the Gander-the unavenged Ghost-
The spirit disturbed and distressed

Of him who erewhile of his tribe was the boast,
Whom 'twas shocking to slay, and inhuman to roast,
The unfortunate Goose of the West!

We all must remember-we never can cease
To think of his proudest display,

When first in the grand competition of Geese,
He appeared like an over-fed Hero of Grease,
And triumphantly carried the day.

And oh had he made but a different use

Of his triumph of shape and of size,

He still might have lived-a respectable Goose-
And the nettles might still have been proud to produce
The Gander that carried the prize!

But, flushed with his conquest, elated with fame,
And swoln with preposterous pride,
With gabble unheard-of in wild goose or tame,
The Gander in person and conduct became
The Pest of the Queen of the Clyde.

We do not insist on his manner and mien-
For these we might find an excuse-

But his gabble was gross, and his conduct obscene,
And he openly dwelt among creatures—unclean--
A shameless and scandalous Goose!

269

270

THE GHOST OF THE GANDER.

And, hating the blessings he never could share,

How loudly his anger arose

'Gainst the great, and the good, and the brave, and the fair, Whom, in the true spirit of spiteful despair

He accounted his natural foes!

But the life of the Gander we need not relate,
Nor describe how he flourished and fell-
We all know his folly-and as for his fate,
Remembrance must long be oppressed with the weight
Of that "strange insupportable smell!"

And now that his carcass at length is at rest,
And rankles in rotten repose—

When the regent of day has gone down in the West,
His spirit thus wanders, unpitied, unblest,

And noxious still to the nose !

The Ghost of a Goose is a curious sight-
A strange enough phantom at best:
But far may you travel, before you shall light
On such a preposterous spirit of night

As the Ghost of the Goose of the West!

His figure, his gesture, his aspect, his air,
His waddle-they still are the same-
But his ill-fated carcass is naked and bare,
Displaying the marks of a recent affair,

That his friends are unwilling to name.

And a spirit like this, in a garb of Goose-skin,
Where plumage refuses to grow,

Is doubly absurd, when there hangs at his chin,
The shadowy shape of a Trophy of Tin,

The Medal he gain'd at the show.

Thus nightly he waddles around and around
Each loved and familiar scene-

The Goose-dubs, of course, are his favourite ground—
But sometimes the spectre may even be found

Near the door of the very Tontine! 1

And there, when the usual party are met,
"Just thinking" of oysters and ale,

1 A hotel in Glasgow.