him a very severe reprimand from Mr Mac
Laurel, who said to him, "Dinna ye ken, sir, that soond is a thing
utterly worthless in itsel, and only effectual in agreeable
excitements, as far as it is an aicho to sense? Is there ony soond
mair meeserable an' peetifu' than the scrape o' a feddle, when it does
na touch ony chord i' the human sensorium? Is there ony mair divine
than the deep note o' a bagpipe, when it breathes the auncient
meelodies o' leeberty an' love? It is true, there are peculiar trains
o' feeling an' sentiment, which parteecular combinations o' meelody
are calculated to excite; an' sae far music can produce its effect
without words: but it does na follow, that, when ye put words to it,
it becomes a matter of indefference what they are; for a gude strain
of impassioned poetry will greatly increase the effect, and a tessue
o' nonsensical doggrel will destroy it a' thegither. Noo, as gude
poetry can produce its effect without music, sae will gude music
without poetry; and as gude music will be mair pooerfu' by itsel' than
wi' bad poetry, sae will gude poetry than wi' bad music: but, when ye
put gude music an' gude poetry thegither, ye produce the divinest
compound o' sentimental harmony that can possibly find its way through
the lug to the saul."

Mr Chromatic admitted that there was much justice in these
observations, but still maintained the subserviency of poetry to
music. Mr Mac Laurel as strenuously maintained the contrary; and a
furious war of words was proceeding to perilous lengths, when the
squire interposed his authority towards the reproduction of peace,
which was forthwith concluded, and all animosities drowned in a
libation of milk-punch, the Reverend Doctor Gaster officiating as high
priest on the occasion.

Mr Chromatic now requested Miss Caprioletta to favour the company with
an air. The young lady immediately complied, and sung the following
simple

BALLAD

"O Mary, my sister, thy sorrow give o'er,
I soon shall return, girl, and leave thee no more:
But with children so fair, and a husband so kind,
I shall feel less regret when I leave thee behind.

"I have made thee a bench for the door of thy cot,
And more would I give thee, but more I have not:
Sit and think of me there, in the warm summer day,
And give me three kisses, my labour to pay."

She gave him three kisses, and forth did he fare.
And long did he wander, and no one knew wher