to excite; an’ sae far music can produce its effect without words:  but it does na follow, that, when ye put words to it, it becomes a matter of indefference what they are; for a gude strain of impassioned poetry will greatly increase the effect, and a tessue o’ nonsensical doggrel will destroy it a’ thegither.  Noo, as gude poetry can produce its effect without music, sae will gude music without poetry; and as gude music will be mair pooerfu’ by itsel’ than wi’ bad poetry, sae will gude poetry than wi’ bad music:  but, when ye put gude music an’ gude poetry thegither, ye produce the divinest compound o’ sentimental harmony that can possibly find its way through the lug to the saul.”

Mr Chromatic admitted that there was much justice in these observations, but still maintained the subserviency of poetry to music.  Mr Mac Laurel as strenuously maintained the contrary; and a furious war of words was proceeding to perilous lengths, when the squire interposed his authority towards the reproduction of peace, which was forthwith concluded, and all animosities drowned in a libation of milk-punch, the Reverend Doctor Gaster officiating as high priest on the occasion.

Mr Chromatic now requested Miss Caprioletta to favour the company with an air.  The young lady immediately complied, and sung the following simple

        BALLAD

    “O Mary, my sister, thy sorrow give o’er,
    I soon shall return, girl, and leave thee no more: 
    But with children so fair, and a husband so kind,
    I shall feel less regret when I leave thee behind.

    “I have made thee a bench for the door of thy cot,
    And more would I give thee, but more I have not: 
    Sit and think of me there, in the warm summer day,
    And give me three kisses, my labour to pay.”

    She gave him three kisses, and forth did he fare. 
    And long did he wander, and no one knew where;
    And long from her cottage, through sunshine and rain,
    She watched his return, but he came not again.

    Her children grew up, and her husband grew grey;
    She sate on the bench through the long summer day: 
    One evening, when twilight was deep on the shore,
    There came an old soldier, and stood by the door.

    In English he spoke, and none knew what he said,
    But her oatcake and milk on the table she spread;
    Then he sate to his supper, and blithely he sung,
    And she knew the dear sounds of her own native tongue: 

    “O rich are the feasts in the Englishman’s hall,
    And the wine sparkles bright in the goblets of Gaul: 
    But their mingled attractions I well could withstand,
    For the milk and the oatcake of Meirion’s dear land.”

    “And art thou a Welchman, old soldier?” she cried. 
    “Many years have I wandered,” the stranger replied: 
    “’Twixt Danube and Thames many rivers there be,
    But the bright waves of Cynfael are fairest to me.