Breathes there a man with taste so dead, Who never to himself hath said, “This is the spirit of my choice,” As he his steaming glass hath stirred? Who hath not slightly raised his voice, So that his words might all be heard―― O _something_ Whiskey, strong yet mild, Sweet spirit, pure and undefiled; From thee, as doctors oft have proved, The fusil oil has been removed; Unlike the other spirits, thou Bring’st not an aching to the brow. Of thee no biliousness is born, No coppers hot the following morn; Men drink of thee at noon, at night, And rise quite fresh at morning light; Men drink of thee, and drink again, To guard ’gainst rheumatism’s pain. * * * * * But there are some, I grieve to say, Who act in quite a silly way; Who every day their vitals spoil, By drinking lots of fusil oil. Yes, such there be, go――mark them well! Their sallow cheeks the secret tell. Sound though their stomachs may have been, Their livers active, palates clean; Yet, thanks to fusil’s deadly force, Fell indigestion comes, of course. _The Figaro_, October 4, 1876. ――――:o:―――― CANTO VII. O, Caledonia! very stern and wild,[34] And only dear to those who travel through you: The poet says you’re lov’d by each Scotch child, But you do not believe such nonsense, do you? What Scotchman is there that would not be riled, If he was bound for life to stick close to you? No, Land of heath, and loch, and shaggy moor, You’re only dear, say we, to those who tour. O, Land of Whisky, Oatmeal, Bastards, Bibles; O Land of Kirks, Kilts, Claymores, Kail, and Cant,―― Of lofty mountains and of very high hills, Of dreary “Sawbaths,” and of patriot rant O land which Dr. Johnson foully libels, To sound thy praises does our hero pant; And to relate how, from engagements freed, He calmly vegetated north of Tweed. He saw “Auld Reekie,” climbed up Arthur’s Seat, And thought the modern Athens a fine city; Admired the view he got from Prince’s Street, And wished the lassies could have been more pretty―― With smaller bones, and less decided feet; He found the cabmen insolent, though witty: The Castle “did,” and, ere he slept, had been on The Calton Hill, and seen the new Parthenon. The Edinburgh “Sawbath” bored him, though, ’Twas like being in a city of the dead; With solemn steps, and faces full of woe, The people to their kirks and chapels sped, Heard damning doctrines, droned some psalms, and so Went home again with Puritanic tread; Pulled down their blinds, and in the evening glooms, Got very drunk in their back sitting-rooms. * * * * * From _Jon Duan_.