1831.3 Monthly Review of Lilemlure. 445 



daily experience of its uniform effects, and his daily conviction, that, contrary to 

 the common maxims of medical men, it is still as effective as at first — it loses 

 none of its force. Notv^'ithstanding, the book itself has nothing of a quackery 

 air, but is written with great sobriety, and is equal, we think, to the very best of 

 its class. It exhibits the signs of no common experience, is full of good sense, 

 and calculated to prompt people to use their own understandings in matters that 

 most nearly concern them. 



We dropt on a curious instance of the disposition of professional men to view 

 every thing through their own professional spectacles. The human machine, in 

 every part of it, must be kept in action, or its powers will weaken. This is the 

 doctor's maxim; but the confirmation the reader would hardly anticipate. 

 Hence, says he, the wisdom of the rule which the illustrious Cyrus established 

 among the Persians — that they should never eat hut after labour, and hence also 

 the propriety of the Apostle's apothegm — lie that would not work, neither should 

 he eat ; as if the good man really took these directions for medical maxims. 



Original Songs, by Robert Gillfillan, of Leith. 



The word song is enough to indicate that the subjects are wholly confined to 

 amatory and bacchanal topics. Mr. Gillfillan's are very agreeable trifles, 

 written in accommodation to national tunes, and will remind the reader of 

 Burns, Tannahill, and Macneil. Several of them were written for the Burns' 

 clubs of Dunfermline and Leith ; and others of them have the flavour of Burns, 

 especially " Pity the Lads that are free." We selected thit for a specimen; 

 but it is too long, and we must substitute another : — 



Tune—" Fy, let us a' to the Bridal." 



The poets, what fools they're to deave us ! 



Now ilka ana's lassie's sae fine ; 

 The tane is an angel, and, save us ! 



The niest ane you meet wi's divine ! 

 An' then there's a lang-nebbit sonnet, 



Be't Katty, or Janet, or Jean ; 

 An' the moon or some far awa' planet's 



Compared to the blink o' her een. 



The earth an' the sea they've ransackit 



For sim'lies to set aff their charms, 

 An' no a wee flower but's attackit 



By poets, like bumbees in swarms. 

 Now, what signifies a' this clatter 



By chiels that the truth winna tell ? 

 AVad it no be setthn' the matter 



To saj- — Lass, ye're just like yoursel ? 



An' then there's nae end to the evil, 



For they are no deaf to the din. 

 That, like me, ony jmir luckless deevil 



Daur scarce look the gate they are in ; 

 But e'en let them be wi' their scornin' — 



There's a lassie, whase name I could tell, 

 Her smile is as sweet as the mornin' — 



But, whisht ! I am ravin' mysel'. 



But he that o' ravin's convickit, 



When a bonnie sweet lass he thinks on. 

 May he ne'er get anitlier strait jacket, 



Th.in that buckled to by Mess John ; 

 And he wha, though cautious and canny, 



The charms o' the fair never saw. 



Though wise as King Solomon's grannie, 

 1 swear is the daftest of a'. 



