His ways were not ours, for he cared not a pin How much he left out, or how much he put in; The truth of the reading he thought was a bore, So this accurate age calls for one volume more. One volume more, &c. Correct and sagacious, then came my Lord Hailes, And weighed every letter in critical scales, And left out some brief words, which the prudish abhor, And castrated Banny in one volume more. One volume more, my friends, one volume more; We'll restore Banny's manhood in one volume more. John Pinkerton next, and I'm truly concerned I can't call that worthy so candid as learned; He railed at the plaid and blasphemed the claymore, And set Scots by the ears in his one volume more. One volume more, my friends, one volume more, Celt and Goth shall be pleased with one volume more. As bitter as gall, and as sharp as a razor, And feeding on herbs as a Nebuchadnezzar, His diet too acid, his temper too sour, Little Ritson came out with his two volumes more. But one volume, my friends, one volume more, We'll dine on roast-beef and print one volume more. The stout Gothic yeditur, next on the roll, With his beard like a brush, and as black as a coal; And honest Greysteel that was true to the core, Lent their hearts and their hands each to one volume more. One volume more, &c. Since by these single champions what wonders were done, What may not be achieved by our Thirty and One? Law, Gospel, and Commerce we count in our corps, And the Trade and the Press join for one volume more. One volume more, &c. Ancient libels and contraband books, I assure ye, We'll print as secure from Exchequer or Jury; Then hear your Committee and let them count o'er The Chiels they intend in their three volumes more. Three volumes more, &c. They'll produce your King Jamie, the Sapient and Sext, And the Bob of Dumblane and her Bishops come next; One tome miscellaneous they'll add to your store, Resolving next year to print four volumes more. Four volumes more, my friends, four volumes more; Pay down your subscriptions for four volumes more. SIR W. SCOTT. THE BOOKSELLERS' BANQUET Grave vendors of volumes, best friends of the Nine, Give ear to my song as to charm you I try; Other bards may in vain look for audience like mine, For the muses they chant, for the booksellers I. Their notes I have drawn, so 'tis nothing but fair That my notes should be drawn, if they please, at a beck; Undaunted I warble--I truly declare My song is most valued when met by a _cheque_.