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1 Fortune's Tavern-a house on the west side of the Old Stamp-office Close, High Street, and which was, in the early part of the last century, the mansion of the Earl of Eglintoun. -The Lord High Commissioner to the General Assembly of the day held his levees and dinners in this tavern.

2 Hunter's-another once much-frequented tavern, in Writer's Court, Royal Exchange.

3 Bayle's Tavern and Coffeehouse, originally on the North Bridge, east side, afterwards in Shakspeare Square, but removed to admit of the opening of Waterloo Place. Such was the dignified character of this house, that the waiter always

Weel, sirs, gude'en, and have a care, The bairns mak fun o' Meg nae mair; For gin they do, she tells you fair, And without failzie,

As sure as ever ye sit there,

She'll tell the Bailie

Epilogue.

1824.

THE sages for authority, pray look
Seneca's morals, or the copy-book-
The sages to disparage woman's power,
Say, beauty is a fair, but fading flower;-
I cannot tell-I've small philosophy-
Yet, if it fades, it does not surely die,
But, like the violet, when decayed in bloom,
Survives through many a year in rich perfume.
Witness our theme to-night, two ages gone,

A third wanes fast, since Mary fill'd the throne.
Brief was her bloom, with scarce one sunny day,
"Twixt Pinkie's field and fatal Fotheringay:
But when, while Scottish hearts and blood you
boast,

Shall sympathy with Mary's woes be lost }
O'er Mary's mem'ry the learned quarrel,
By Mary's grave the poet plants his laurel,
Time's echo, old tradition, makes her name
The constant burden of his fault'ring theme;
In each old hall his gray-hair'd heralds tell
Of Mary's picture, and of Mary's cell,
And show-my fingers tingle at the thought—
The loads of tapestry which that poor Queen
wrought,

In vain did fate bestow a double dower
Of ev'ry ill that waits on rank and pow'r,
Of ev'ry ill on beauty that attends—
False ministers, false lovers, and false friends.
Spite of three wedlocks so completely curst,
They rose in ill from bad to worse, and worst,
In spite of errors-I dare not say more,
For Duncan Targe lays hand on his claymore.
In spite of all, however, humors vary,
There is a talisman in that word Mary,

appeared in full dress, and nobody was admitted who had not a white neckcloth-then considered an indispensable insignium of a gentleman.

4 Mr. William Murray became manager of the Edinburgh Theatre in 1815.

5 "I recovered the above with some difficulty. I believe it was never spoken, but written for some play, afterwards withdrawn, in which Mrs. H. Siddons was to have spoken it in the character of Queen Mary."-Extract from a Letter of Sir Walter Scott to Mr. Constable, 22d October, 1824.

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The boy who remembered the scourge, undid the You are our captive--but we'll use you so,

wicket of the castle at midnight.

Kindness fadeth away, but vengeance endureth.

Lightning destroyeth temples, though their spires

pierce the clouds;

That you shall think your prison joys may match
Whate'er your liberty hath known of pleasure.
Roderick. No, fairest, we have trifled here too
long;

And, lingering to see your roses blossom

Storms destroy armadas, though their sails inter- I've let my laurels wither.

cept the gale.

He that is in his glory falleth, and that by a con

temptible enemy.

Kindness fadeth away, but vengeance endureth.

Old Play.

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"Now bless'd be the moment, the messenger be And now must the faith of my mistress be shown:

blest!

Much honor'd do I hold me in my lady's high behest! And say unto my lady, in this dear night-weed dress'd,

To the best arm'd champion I will not veil my crest;

For she who prompts knights on such danger to rea
Must avouch his true service in front of the sun.

"I restore,' says my master, 'the garment I've

worn,

And I claim of the Princess to don it in turn; But if I live and bear me well, 'tis her turn to take For its stains and its rents she should prize it the the test." Here, gentles, ends the foremost fytte of the Lay Since by shame 'tis unsullied, though crimson'd of the Bloody Vest.

THE BLOODY VEST.

FYTTE SECOND.

THE Baptist's fair morrow beheld gallant feats-
There was winning of honor, and losing of seats-
There was hewing with falchions, and splintering
of staves,

The victors won glory, the vanquish'd won graves.
O, many a knight there fought bravely and well,
Yet one was accounted his peers to excel,
And 'twas he whose sole armor on body and breast,
Seem'd the weed of a damsel when boune for her
rest.

There were some dealt him wounds that were
bloody and sore,

But others respected his plight, and forbore.
"It is some oath of honor," they said, "and I trow,
"Twere unknightly to slay him achieving his vow."
Then the Prince, for his sake, bade the tournament

cease,

He flung down his warder, the trumpets sung peace;

And the judges declare, and competitors yield, That the Knight of the Night-gear was first in the field.

The feast it was nigh, and the mass it was nigher,
When before the fair Princess low louted a squire,
And deliver'd a garment unseemly to view,
With sword-cut and spear-thrust, all hack'd and
pierced through;

All rent and all tatter'd, all clotted with blood,
With foam of the horses, with dust, and with mud,
Not the point of that lady's small finger, I ween,
Could have rested on spot was unsullied and clean.

"This token my master, Sir Thomas a Kent,
Restores to the Princess of fair Benevent;
He that climbs the tall tree has won right to the
fruit,
[suit;
He that leaps the wide gulf should prevail in his
Through life's utmost peril the prize I have won,

more,

with gore."

[press'd Then deep blush'd the Princess-yet kiss'd she and The blood-spotted robes to her lips and her breast. "Go tell my true knight, church and chamber shall show

If I value the blood on this garment or no."

And when it was time for the nobles to pass,
In solemn procession to minster and mass,
The first walk'd the Princess in purple and pall,
But the blood-besmear'd night-robe she wore over
all;

And eke, in the hall, where they all sat at dine
When she knelt to her father and proffer'd the wine,
Over all her rich robes and state jewels, she wore
That wimple unseemly bedabbled with gore.

Then lords whisper'd ladies, as well you may think,
And ladies replied, with nod, titter, and wink;
And the Prince, who in anger and shame had look'd
down,
[a frown:
Turn'd at length to his daughter, and spoke with
"Now since thou hast publish'd thy folly and guilt,
E'en atone with thy hand for the blood thou hast

spilt;

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