An important commentary on the subject will be found in a volume entitled _Interesting Roman Antiquities recently discovered in Fife_, by Rev. Andrew Small (Edinburgh, 1823.) In this work it is stated that near the Castle Law, Abernethy, were twenty-two graves of witches, and near by is the hill on which they were burned. A Mr. Ross, laird of Invernethy in the reign of James VI., became, as justice of the peace, responsible for the apprehension of certain witches, and made the discovery that their names were entered in a book. He set his mind upon obtaining this written record, and, as one step thereto, he persuaded a women who was a member of the gang to permit him to accompany her to a meeting. The laird went to the meeting on a fast mare, and kept his seat while the orgies proceeded, and obtained possession of the book wherein to inscribe his name with his own blood. But instead of complying with the rule he put spurs to his steed and fled with the book, “while out the hellish legion sallied.” The witches swarmed upon him, but the laird kept his seat, and the mare kept her tail, and he outran them and got home, and quickly locked himself in and copied the names from the book. By this time the clamouring crowd had reached the house, and he dispersed them by throwing out the book, which they gladly seized and carried away. In introducing the story Mr. Small says: “If ever the poet Burns had been in this part of the country, I would have said he had taken the leading ideas or hints from it in his humorous and excellent poem.” ―――― THE POLITICAL TAM O’SHANTER. _Adapted, Fragmentarily, from Burns. Application――obvious._ No man can tether time or tide, And he who holds the reins must ride; And such a night WEG takes the road in As seldom rider was abroad in. With Boreas at his fullest blast, And Eurus whistling fierce and fast, There was a shindy never fellowed. Loud, deep, and long they raved and bellowed, That night o’ nights a Scot might say The Deil (of Hatfield) was to pay. Well mounted on his mare was WEG, (A stouter never lifted leg,) Through Irish-bog-like mud and mire, Wartonian wind, and Woodcock fire, Fought iron frame and shrewd head on it. Weg, holding fast his good Scots bonnet, Looked sharp around with prudent care, Lest bogies take him unaware, Or watchful foemen “wipe his eye” With that confounded thing, a “cry,”