“And every eye was turn’d to see What such a goodly smell might be! When, lo! upon the sideboard plac’d, With mottoes quaint and scutcheons grac’d, And crest erect on high; In noble dish of china-ware, Adorn’d with gold and pictures rare, Stood, and perfumed the neighbouring air, A lofty pigeon-pie! And round its edge, in _bas relieve_, The curious gazer might perceive S.W. and P.I.! * * * * * Knows well, no doubt the curious sage, And poet’s mind, and head of age, What such devices mean; Who made this pie, of high renown, A baker was, of Derby town, His sire reap’d beards at Horsleydown, An honest wight, I ween; His sister a damsel of Etwall-ash, His mother a matron of Enfield-wash, And laundress to the Queen! And long could he trace his ancestry, Too long for my weak minstrelsy.” * * * * * ――――:o:―――― VALENTINES, _A Fragment._ … “It was then proposed that we should each of us compose a poem for the next St. Valentine’s Day. The idea was readily adopted, and the MINSTREL, who has a knack of pouring the unpremeditated lay, after a very short prelude on the bagpipes, sang the following irregular lines, accompanying his voice with great taste on that expressive instrument:―― I who, of Norham’s castled steep, And Tweed’s fair river, broad and deep, And Cheviot’s mountains lone; The battled towers, the Donjon keep, The loophole grates where captives weep, The flanking walls that round it sweep, Built of the thickest stone:―― Of stalworth knight and champion grim With square-turn’d joints and strength of limb; Of Haco’s floating banner trim; Of Wallace wight, and Martin Swart, Who came on baker Simnel’s part; Of abbots, monks and jovial friars, Of simple nuns and purblind priors, Of heralds, pursuivants, and squires; And wanton lady’s charms; Of painted tabards, proudly showing Gules, argent, or, or azure glowing, And him, that Satirist, so knowing, Of whom we still make some account, Sir David Lindsay, of the mount, Lord lion king at arms:―― * * * * * I, who have sung of all of these;―― And eke of that same cuckold lord, Sir Hugh the Heron bold, Baron of Twissel and of Ford, And Captain of the Hold. Who led the Falcon knight to the deas, And posted him full high With a fresh broach’d pipe of Malvoisie And a savoury venison pie: From the bare north, my distant home A border minstrel, lo! I come; Who much, I ween, have pored On many a huge unwieldy tome Imprinted at the antique dome, Of Caxton, or de Worde: