In singing the “Ewe-buchts, Marion,” it is remarkable that he adds a chorus which is not found in any printed edition of the song: “Come round about the Merry-knowes, my Marion, Come round about the Merry-knowes wi’ me; Come round about the Merry-knowes, my Marion, For Whitsled is lying lea.” Whitsled is a farm in the parish of Ashkirk, county of Selkirk, lying upon the water of Ale; and Merry-knowes is the name of a particular spot in the farm. This circumstance is certainly important enough to deserve the attention of those who make Scottish song a study and object of collection; as the verse, if authentic, would go far to prove the locality of the “Ewe-buchts.” In addition to his talent as a musician, Jock can also boast of a supplementary one, by means of which, whenever memory fails in his songs, he can supply, _currente voce_, all incidental deficiencies. He is not only a wit and a musician, but also a _poet_! He has composed several songs, which by no means want admirers in the country, though the most of them scarcely deserve the praise of even mediocrity. Indeed his poetical talents are of no higher order than what the author of an excellent article in the “Edinburgh Annual Register” happily terms “wonderfully well considering”; and seem to be admired by his rustic friends only on the benevolent principle of “where little has been given, let little be required.” He has, however, another most remarkable gift, which the author of “Waverley” has entirely rejected in conceiving the revised and enlarged edition of his character,—a wonderful turn for _mimicry_. His powers in this art are far, far indeed, from contemptible, though it unfortunately happens that, like almost all rustic Scottish humorists, he makes ministers and sacred things his chief and favourite objects. He attends the preachings of all the ministers that fall within the scope of his peregrinations, and sometimes brings away whole _tenthlies_ of their several sermons, which he lays off to any person that desires him, with a faithfulness of imitation, in tone and gesture, which never fails to convulse his audience with laughter. He has made himself master of all the twangs, _soughs_, wheezes, coughs, _snirtles_, and bleatings, peculiar to the various parish ministers twenty miles round; and being himself of no particular sect, he feels not the least delicacy or compunction for any single class of divines—all are indiscriminately familiar to the powers of the universal Jock!