Through private channels have oozed out at this late day a few specimens of Lady Anne’s poetical abilities; less brilliant than might be expected from the above character of her, yet having a certain air of dash and espièglerie which looks appropriate. They are partly devoted to bewailing the coldness of a certain Sir Peter Murray of Balmanno, towards whom she chose to act as a sort of she-Petrarch, but apparently in the mere pursuit of whim. One runs in the following tender strain:
‘Oh, when he dances at a ball,
He’s rarely worth the seeing;
So light he trips, you would him take
For some aërial being!
While pinky-winky go his een,
How blest is each bystander!
How gracefully he leads the fair,
When to her seat he hands her!
But when in accents saft and sweet,