With his bloodhounds in the leash, stood the iron-sinewed Neish, And the falchion of Dalgleish glittered bright-- "Now, wake the trumpet's blast; and, comrades, follow fast; Smite them down unto the last!" Cried the knight. In the cumbered yard without, there was shriek, and yell, and shout, As the warriors wheeled about, all in mail. On the miserable kerne fell the death-strokes stiff and stern, As the deer treads down the fern, In the vale! Saint Mungo be my guide! It was goodly in that tide To see the Bogle ride in his haste; He accompanied each blow with a cry of "Ha!" or "Ho!" And always cleft the foe To the waist. "George of Gorbals--craven lord! thou didst threat me with the cord; Come forth and brave my sword, if you dare!" But he met with no reply, and never could descry The glitter of his eye Anywhere. Ere the dawn of morning shone, all the Gorbaliers were down, Like a field of barley mown in the ear: It had done a soldier good to see how Provan stood, With Neish all bathed in blood, Panting near. "Now bend ye to your tasks--go trundle down those casks, And place the empty flasks on the floor; George of Gorbals scarce will come, with trumpet and with drum, To taste our beer and rum Any more!" So they bent them to their tasks, and they trundled down the casks, And replaced the empty flasks on the floor; But pallid for a week was the cellar-master's cheek, For he swore he heard a shriek Through the door. When the merry Christmas came, and the Yule-log lent its flame To the face of squire and dame in the hall, The cellarer went down to tap October brown, Which was rather of renown 'Mongst them all. He placed the spigot low, and gave the cask a blow, But his liquor would not flow through the pin. "Sure, 'tis sweet as honeysuckles!" so he rapped it with his knuckles, But a sound, as if of buckles, Clashed within. "Bring a hatchet, varlets, here!" and they cleft the cask of beer: What a spectacle of fear met their sight! There George of Gorbals lay, skull and bones all blanched and grey, In the arms he bore the day Of the fight! I have sung this ancient tale, not, I trust, without avail, Though the moral ye may fail to perceive; Sir Launcelot is dust, and his gallant sword is rust, And now, I think, I must Take my leave! ILLUSTRATIONS OF THE PUFF POETICAL [The following eleven pieces of verse appeared originally with many others in an article called "Puffs and Poetry," from which the following passage is taken:--