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the professor.
151
From Bewley's bog, with slaughter red,
A wanderer hither drew;
And oft he stopped and turned his head.
As by fits the night-winds blew.
For trampling round by Cheviot-edge,
Were heard the troopers keen;
And frequent from the Whitelaw ridge
The death-shot flashed between." &c., &c.
The old Scotch ballad was partly recited, then dropt; a pause ensued; then another strain followed, in French, of which the purport, translated, ran as follows:—
I gave, at first, attention close;
Then interest warm ensued;
From interest as improvement rose,
Succeeded gratitude.
Obedience was no effort soon,
And labour was no pain;
If tired, a word, a glance alone
Would give me strength again.
