nd so gay is found,
Whether you breathe along the shore of Leith,
Or Lowmond's lofty cliffs thy strains resound;
Struck by a taper finger's gentle tip,
Ah softly in our ears thy pleasing murmurs slip!

II.

Where'er thy lively music's found,
All are jumping, dancing round:
Ev'n trusty William lifts a leg,
And capers like sixteen with Peg;
Both old and young confess thy pow'rful sway,
They skip like madmen and they frisk away.

III.

Rous'd by the magic of the charming air,
The yawning dogs forego their heavy slumbers;
The ladies listen on the narrow stair,
And Captain Andrew straight forgets his numbers.
Cats and mice give o'er their battling,
Pewter plates on shelves are rattling;
But falling down the noise my lady hears,
Whose scolding drowns the trump more tuneful than the spheres!

Having thus, Boswell, written you a most entertaining letter, with which
you are highly pleased; to your great grief I give over in these or the
like words, your affectionate friend,

ANDREW ERSKINE.

* * * * *

LETTER VIII.

Edinburgh, Dec. 2, 1761.

Dear ERSKINE,--Notwithstanding of your affecting elegy on the death of
two pigs, I am just now returned from eating a most excellent one with
the most magnificent Donaldson. I wish you would explain to me the
reason of my being so very hard-hearted as to discover no manner of
reluctance at that innocent animal's being brought to table well
roasted. I will confess to you, my friend, that I fed upon it with no
small alacrity--neither do I feel any pangs of remorse for having so
done. The reason perhaps lies so deep as to elude our keenest
penetration;--at the same time give me leave to offer my conjecture,
which you may have by a little transmutation of a vulgar adage, in such
manner as to obtain at one and the same time (so to speak) not only a
strong reason for my alleged inhumanity, but also an apparent pun, and
a seeming paradox; all which you have for the small and easy charge of
saying, The belly has no bowels.

I do assure you the imperial sovereign of Pope's head, Caledonian
Dodsley, Scottish Baskerville, and captain general of collective bards,
entertained us most sumptuously; I question much if captain Erskine
himself ever fared better; although I was the only author in the
company, which I own surprised me not a little.