I send you two poems which I have found in a little rough scrap-book of a literary character of last century, and which, not having myself met with in print, I trust you will consider worth preserving in your pages. The one styled "A Scotch Poem on the King and the Queen of the Fairies," has a vein of playful satire running through it, but I do not detect any word which justifies the ascription of its paternity to Scotland. Perhaps some of your readers would oblige me by indicating the source from which this poem has been taken, if it is already in print. A SCOTCH POEM ON THE KING AND THE QUEEN OF THE FAIRIES. Upon a time the Fairy Elves, Being first array'd themselves, Thought it meet to clothe their King In robes most fit for revelling. He had a cobweb shirt more thin Than ever spider since could spin, Bleach'd in the whiteness of the snow, When that the northern winds do blow. {425} A rich waistcoat they did him bring, Made of the troutfly's golden wing, Dy'd crimson in a maiden's blush, And lin'd in humming-bees' soft plush. His hat was all of lady's love, So passing light, that it would move If any gnat or humming fly But beat the air in passing by. About it went a wreath of pearl, Dropt from the eyes of some poor girl, Pinch'd because she had forgot To leave clean water in the pot. His breeches and his cassock were Made of the tinsel gossamer; Down by its seam there went a lace Drawn by an urchin snail's slow pace. No sooner was their King attir'd As never prince had been, But, as in duty was requir'd, They next array their Queen. Of shining thread shot from the sun And twisted into line, In the light wheel of fortune spun, Was made her smock so fine. Her gown was ev'ry colour fair, The rainbow gave the dip; Perfumed from an amber air, Breath'd from a virgin's lip. Her necklace was of subtle tye Of glorious atoms, set In the pure black of beauty's eye As they had been in jet. The revels ended, she put off, Because her Grace was warm; She fann'd her with a lady's scoff, And so she took no harm. Mrs. Barbauld wrote the following lines on a scroll within a kind of wreath, which hung over the chimney, the whole parlour being decorated with branches of ivy, which were made to run down the walls and hang down every pannel in festoons, at a country place called Palgrave: Surly Winter, come not here, Bluster in thy proper sphere; Howl along the naked plain; There exert they joyless reign. Triumph o'er the wither'd flow'r, The leafless shrub, the ruin'd bower; But our cottage come not near, Other Springs inhabit here, Other sunshine decks our board Than they niggard skies afford. Gloomy Winter, hence away, Love and fancy scorn they sway; Love, and joy, and friendly mirth Shall bless this roof, these walls, this hearth, The rigor of the year control, And thaw the winter in the soul.