ta-cles?" Mr. Abbey says we are Don Quixotestell him we are more generally taken for Pedlars. All I hope is that we may not be taken for excisemen in this whiskey country. We are generally up about 5 walking before breakfast and we complete our 20 miles before dinner. Yesterday we visited Burns's Tomb and this morning the fine Ruins of Lincluden.-I had done thus far when my coat came back fortified at all points-so as we lose no time we set forth again through Galloway -all very pleasant and pretty with no fatigue when one is used to it-We are in the midst of Meg Merrilies' country of whom I suppose you have heard.

Old Meg she was a Gipsy,

And liv'd upon the Moors:

Her bed it was the brown heath turf,
And her house was out of doors.

Her apples were swart blackberries,
Her currants pods o' broom;

Her wine was dew of the wild white rose,
Her book a churchyard tomb.

Her Brothers were the craggy hills,

Her Sisters larchen trees

Alone with her great family

She liv'd as she did please.

No breakfast had she many a morn,
No dinner many a noon,

And 'stead of supper she would stare
Full hard against the Moon.

But every morn of woodbine fresh
She made her garlanding,
And every night the dark glen Yew

She wove, and she would sing.

And with her fingers old and brown.

She plaited Mats o' Rushes,
And gave them to the Cottagers

She met among the Bushes.

Old Meg was brave as Margaret Queen

And tall as Amazon:

An old red blanket cloak she wore;

A chip hat had she on.

God rest her aged bones somewhere

She died full long agone!

If you like these sort of Ballads I will now and then scribble one for you-if I send any to Tom I'll tell him to send them to you. I have so many interruptions that I cannot manage to fill a Letter in one day-since I scribbled the song we have walked through a beautiful Country to Kirkcudbright—at which place I will write you a song about myself.

There was a naughty Boy,

A naughty boy was he,
He would not stop at home,
He could not quiet be-

He took

In his Knapsack

A Book

Full of vowels

And a shirt

With some towels

A slight cap

For night cap

A hair brush,

Comb ditto,

New Stockings

For old ones

Would split O!
This Knapsack
Tight at's back

He rivetted close

And followed his Nose

To the North,

To the North,

And follow'd his nose

To the North.

There was a naughty boy

And a naughty boy was he,

For nothing would he do

But scribble poetry

He took

An inkstand

In his hand

And a Pen

Big as ten

In the other,

And away

In a Pother

He ran

To the mountains

And fountains

And ghostes

And Postes

And witches

And ditches

And wrote

In his coat

When the weather

Was cool,

Fear of gout,

And without