I feel The mellow moorland air, gorse-scented, bland With heather odour, soothes me, like the hand Of gentle woman on an angry brow. Were the great-little Scotsman with me now, Like proud MCGREGOR on his native heath, Breathing pure-scented, honey-laden breath, How his cock-nose would drop, his flaming crest Droop and unruffle! He's a scold confest, A pedagogue incarnate; horn-book, tawse. Cramming and chastisement, not making laws, His talent and his temperament best befit. Yet--once he lent his eloquence and wit To aid the man he now maligns. Ah, me! "Tricky!"--"corrupt!" What arrant fiddle-de-dee It sounds--upon these moors, beneath the blue Of unpolluted skies! HOMER, to you I turn. ACHILLES in his wrath could rage, But scarce would stoop the wordy war to wage With poisoned epithet and shrewish flout Like scorpion-tongued THERSITES. Here, no doubt, By Black Craig Castle party wasps would turn To honey-hiving bees. Oh, tinkling burn, You set my soul to music. HONEST JOHN, Valiant Sir WILLIAM, you must still fight on A little longer. Would ye both were here. ARMITSTEAD'S guests, like me, like me with cheer "Purely recuperative" holiday To take--"Over the Hills and Far Away!" [_Left lolling like a Lotus-eater._ * * * * * AN OLD FRIEND DUE NORTH. For a really humorous drawing commend me to the picture in the _Daily Graphic_ of Saturday, September 9, representing "the civic procession to the luncheon given to Lord and Lady ABERDEEN by the Lord Mayor of Liverpool." The stately party is preceded by a Piper--of course, it is his worship the Mayor and common councillors who pay the piper and call the tune on this occasion--who is stepping out jauntily. But notice his glance; notice the Mayor's expression as he tries to prevent himself laughing, and hides one eye with the sword of State; notice Lord and Lady ABERDEEN, the latter looking a trifle annoyed, while his Lordship is struggling with painfully suppressed merriment. What is it that has nearly upset their gravity and spoilt the procession? The explanation is at hand. On the left of the picture in the foreground stands, _en evidence_ it is true, but with a reverential air as of one who knows his place in society and keeps it, our old friend and contributor, _Robert the Waiter_!! It must be he. It is the very man, unless he has a Scotch double, or unless he was born a twin, and the other ROBERT was a Scotchman. There he is. Get the paper and see. * * * * *