THE BEACONS BLAZED.

AIR—'Cope sent a letter frae Dunbar.'

The beacons blazed, the banners flew, The war-pipes loud their pibrochs blew, The trusty clans their claymores drew, To shield their Royal Charlie.

Come a' ye chiefs, bring a' your clans, Frae a' your mountains, muirs, and glens, Bring a' your spears, swords, dirks, and guns, To shield and save Prince Charlie.

They, like their fathers, bold and brave, Came at a call, wi' dirk and glaive; Of danger fearless, sworn to save Or fa' for Royal Charlie.

Famed Scotia's chiefs, intrepid still, Led forth their tribes frae strath and hill, And boldly dared, wi' right guid will, To shield their Royal Charlie.

The forests and the rocks replied To shouts which rung both far and wide: Our prince is come, his people's pride— Oh, welcome hame, Prince Charlie!

Thee, Scotia's rightful prince we own; We'll die, or seat thee on the throne, Where many a Scottish king has shone; The sires o' Royal Charlie.

No faithful Scot now makes a pause; Plain truth and justice plead thy cause; Each fearlessly his weapon draws, To shield and save Prince Charlie.

Now, lead us on against thy foes; Thy rightful claim all Europe knows; We'll scatter death with all our blows, To shield and save Prince Charlie.

Now, chiefs and clans, your faith display, By deathless deeds in battle day, To stretch them pale on beds of clay, The foes of Royal Charlie.



THE RENDEZVOUS.

Warlike chieftains now assembled, Fame your daring deeds shall tell, Fiercest foes have fear'd and trembled, When you raised your warlike yell. Bards shall sing when battle rages, Scotia's sons shall victors be; Bards shall sing in after ages, Caledonians aye were free.

Blest be every bold avenger, Cheer'd the heart that fears no wound; Dreadful in the day of danger Be each chieftain ever found.

Let the hills our swords have shielded, Ring to every hero's praise; And the tribes who never yielded, Their immortal trophies raise.

Heroes brave, be ever ready, At your king and country's call; When your dauntless chiefs shall lead you, Let the foe that dares you fall.

Let the harp to strains resounding, Ring to cheer the dauntless brave; Let the brave like roes come bounding On to glory or a grave.

Let your laurels never-fading, Gleam like your unconquer'd glaive; Where your thistle springs triumphant, There let freedom's banner wave.



JOHN YOUNGER.

John Younger, the shoemaker of St Boswells, and author of the Prize Essay on the Sabbath, has some claim to enrolment among the minstrels of his country. He was born on the 5th July 1785, at Longnewton village, in the parish of Ancrum, and county of Roxburgh. So early as his ninth year, he began to work at his father's trade of a shoemaker. In 1810 he married, and commenced shoemaking in the village of St Boswells, where he has continued to reside. Expert in his original profession, he has long been reputed for his skill in dressing hooks for Tweed angling; the latter qualification producing some addition to his emoluments. He holds the office of village postmaster.

A man of superior intellect and varied information, John Younger enjoys the respect of a wide circle of friends. His cottage is the resort of anglers of every rank; and among his correspondents he enumerates the most noted characters of the age. Letter writing is his favourite mode of recreation, and he has preserved copies of his letters in several interesting volumes. He has published a poetical brochure with the title, "Thoughts as they Rise;" also a "Treatise on River Angling." His Prize Essay on the Sabbath, entitled, "The Light of the Week," was published in 1849, and has commanded a wide circulation. Of his lyrical effusions we have selected the following from his MS. collection.



ILKA BLADE O' GRASS GETS ITS AIN DRAP O' DEW.

Oh, dinna be sae sair cast down, My ain sweet bairnies dear, Whatever storms in life may blaw, Take nae sic heart o' fear. Though life's been aye a checker'd scene Since Eve's first apple grew, Nae blade o' grass has been forgot O' its ain drap o' dew.

The bonnie flowers o' Paradise, And a' that 's bloom'd sinsyne, By bank an' brae an' lover's bower, Adown the course o' time, Or 'neath the gardener's fostering hand,— Their annual bloom renew, Ilk blade o' grass has had as weel Its ain sweet drap o' dew.

The oaks and cedars of the earth May toss their arms in air, Or bend beneath the sweeping blast That strips the forest bare; The flower enfolds while storms o'erpass, Till sunshine spreads anew, And sips, as does ilk blade o' grass, Its lucent drap o' dew.

The great may loll in world's wealth And a' the pomp o' state, While labour, bent wi' eident cares, Maun toil baith ear and late. The poor may gae to bed distrest, With nae relief in view, And rising, like ilk blade o' grass, Shine wi' the pearl o' dew.

Oh, what a gentle hand is His That cleeds the lilies fair, And o' the meanest thing in life Takes mair than mother's care! Can ye no put your trust in Him, With heart resign'd and true, Wha ne'er forgets to gie the grass, Ilk blade its drap o' dew.



THE MONTH OF JUNE.

O June, ye spring the loveliest flowers That a' our seasons yield; Ye deck sae flush the greenwood bowers, The garden, and the field; The pathway verge by hedge and tree, So fresh, so green, and gay, Where every lovely blue flower's e'e Is opening to the day.

The river banks and craggy peaks In wilding blossoms drest; With ivy o'er their jutting nooks Ye screen the ouzel's nest; From precipice, abrupt and bold, Your tendrils flaunt in air, With craw-flowers dangling living gold Ye tuft the steep brown scaur.

Your foliage shades the wild bird's nest From every prying e'e, With fairy fingers ye invest In woven flowers the lea; Around the lover's blissful hour Ye draw your leafy screen, And shade those in your rosy bower, Who love to muse unseen.



JOHN BURTT.

John Burtt was born about the year 1790, at Knockmarloch, in the parish of Riccarton, and county of Ayr. With a limited school education, he was apprenticed to a weaver in Kilmarnock; but at the loom he much improved himself in general scholarship, especially in classical learning. In his sixteenth year he was decoyed into a ship of war at Greenock, and compelled to serve on board. Effecting his escape, after an arduous servitude of five years, he resumed the loom at Kilmarnock. He subsequently taught an adventure school, first in Kilmarnock, and afterwards at Paisley. The irksome labours of sea-faring life he had sought to relieve by the composition of verses; and these in 1816 he published, under the title of "Horae Poeticae; or, the Recreations of a Leisure Hour." In 1817 he emigrated to the United States, where his career has been prosperous. Having studied theology at Princeton College, New Jersey, he became a licentiate of the Presbyterian Church, and was appointed to a ministerial charge at Salem. In 1831 he removed to Philadelphia, where he edited a periodical entitled the Presbyterian. Admitted in 1833 to a Presbyterian Church in Cincinnati, he there edited the Standard, a religious newspaper. In August 1835, he was promoted to a chair in the Theological Seminary of that place.



O'ER THE MIST-SHROUDED CLIFFS.[8]

AIR—'Banks of the Devon.'

O'er the mist-shrouded cliffs of the gray mountain straying, Where the wild winds of winter incessantly rave; What woes wring my heart while intently surveying The storm's gloomy path on the breast of the wave? Ye foam-crested billows, allow me to wail, Ere ye toss me afar from my loved native shore; Where the flower which bloom'd sweetest in Coila's green vale, The pride of my bosom—my Mary 's no more.

No more by the banks of the streamlet we 'll wander, And smile at the moon's rimpled face in the wave; No more shall my arms cling with fondness around her, For the dew-drops of morning fall cold on her grave. No more shall the soft thrill of love warm my breast— I haste with the storm to a far distant shore, Where, unknown, unlamented, my ashes shall rest, And joy shall revisit my bosom no more.

FOOTNOTES:

[8] This song has been erroneously assigned to Burns.



O! LASSIE, I LO'E DEAREST!

O! lassie, I lo'e dearest! Mair fair to me than fairest, Mair rare to me than rarest, How sweet to think o' thee. When blythe the blue e'ed dawnin' Steals saftly o'er the lawnin', And furls night's sable awnin', I love to think o' thee.

An' while the honey'd dew-drap Still trembles at the flower-tap, The fairest bud I pu't up, An' kiss'd for sake o' thee. An' when by stream or fountain, In glen, or on the mountain, The lingering moments counting, I pause an' think o' thee.

When the sun's red rays are streamin', Warm on the meadow beamin', Or o'er the loch wild gleamin', My heart is fu' o' thee. An' tardy-footed gloamin', Out o'er the hills slow comin', Still finds me lanely roamin', And thinkin' still o' thee.

When soughs the distant billow, An' night blasts shake the willow, Stretch'd on my lanely pillow, My dreams are a' o' thee. Then think when frien's caress thee, Oh, think when cares distress thee, Oh, think when pleasures bless thee, O' him that thinks o' thee.



CHARLES JAMES FINLAYSON.

Charles James Finlayson was born on the 27th August 1790, in the parish of Larbert, and county of Stirling. Owing to the death of his father during his childhood, and the poverty of the family, he was never at school. While a cow-herd to a farmer, he taught himself letters in the fields. With a fine ear for music and an excellent voice, he took delight in singing such scraps of old ballads as he had learned from the cottage matrons. The small gratuities which he procured for holding the horses of the farmers at the annual Falkirk trysts, put him in possession of all the printed ballad literature which that town could supply. In his eleventh year he entered, in a humble capacity, the Carron Iron Works; where he had some opportunity of improving himself in scholarship, and gratifying his taste for books. He travelled from Carron to Glasgow, a distance of twenty-three miles, to procure a copy of Ossian. Improving his musical predilections, he was found qualified, while still a young man, to officiate as precentor, or leader of the psalmody, in the church of his native parish. Resigning this appointment, and his situation in the Carron Works, he for some time taught church music in the neighbouring towns. On an invitation from the Kirk-session and congregation, he became precentor in the Old Kirk, Edinburgh; and in this office gained the active friendship of the respected clergyman, Dr Macknight.

Having attained a scientific acquaintance with the theory and practice of his art, Mr Finlayson resigned his appointment in the capital, and proceeded to the provinces as an instructor in vocal music. He visited the principal towns in the east and southern districts of Scotland, and was generally successful. During his professional visit to Dumfries in 1820, he became one of the founders of the Burns' Club in that town. After a short absence in Canada, he settled in Kircudbright as a wine and spirit merchant. In 1832 he was appointed to the office of postmaster. Having retired from business a few years since, he enjoys the fruits of a well-earned competency. He has contributed songs to Blackie's "Book of Scottish Song," and other collections. His song beginning "Oh, my love 's bonnie!" has been translated into German, and published with music at Leipsic.



THE BARD STRIKES HIS HARP.

The bard strikes his harp, the wild woods among, And echo repeats to the breezes his strain; Enraptured, the small birds around his seat throng, And the lambkins, delighted, stand mute on the plain. He sings of the pleasures his young bosom knew, When beauty inspired him, and love was the theme; While his harp, ever faithful, awakes them anew, And a tear dims his eye as he breathes the loved name.

The hearths that bade welcome, the tongues that gave praise, Are now cold to his sorrows, and mute to his wail! E'en the oak, his sole shelter, rude winter decays, And the wild flowers he sung are laid scentless and pale. Too oft thus in misery, the minstrel must pine; Neglected by those whom his song wont to cheer, They think not, alas! as they view his decline, That his heart still can feel, and his eye shed a tear.

Yet sweet are the pleasures that spring from his woes, And which souls that are songless can never enjoy; They know not his joy, for each sweet strain that flows Twines a wreath round his name time can never destroy. Sing on, then, sweet bard! though thus lonely ye stray, Yet ages unborn, thy name shall revere; While the names that neglect thee have melted away, As the snowflakes which fall in the stream disappear.



PH[OE]BUS, WI' GOWDEN CREST.

Ph[oe]bus, wi' gowden crest, leaves ocean's heaving breast An' frae the purple east smiles on the day; Laverocks wi' blythesome strain, mount frae the dewy plain, Greenwood and rocky glen echo their lay; Wild flowers, wi' op'ning blooms, woo ilka breeze that comes, Scattering their rich perfumes over the lea; But summer's varied dye, lark's song, and breezes' sigh, Only bring sorrow and sadness to me.

Blighted, like autumn's leaf, ilk joy is changed to grief— Day smiles around, but no pleasure can gie; Night on his sable wings, sweet rest to nature brings— Sleep to the weary, but waukin' to me. Aften has warldly care wrung my sad bosom sair; Hope's visions fled me, an' friendship's untrue; But a' the ills o' fate never could thus create Anguish like parting, dear Annie, frae you.

Farewell, those beaming eyes, stars in life's wintry skies— Aft has adversity fled frae your ray; Farewell, that angel smile, stranger to woman's wile, That ever could beguile sorrow away; Farewell, ilk happy scene, wild wood, an' valley green, Where time, on rapture's wing, over us flew; Farewell, that peace of heart, thou only could'st impart— Farewell, dear Annie—a long, long adieu!



OH, MY LOVE'S BONNIE.

Oh! my love's bonnie, bonnie, bonnie; Oh! my love's bonnie and dear to me; The smile o' her face, and her e'e's witchin' grace, Are mair than the wealth o' this warld can gie.

Her voice is as sweet as the blackbird at gloamin', When echo repeats her soft notes to the ear, And lovely and fresh as the wild roses blooming, That dip in the stream o' the Carron so clear.

But poortith 's a foe to the peace o' this bosom, That glows sae devoutly, dear lassie, for thee; Alas! that e'er poortith should blight love's young blossom, When riches nae lasting contentment can gie.

Yet hope's cheerfu' sun shall aboon my head hover, And guide a lone wanderer, when far frae thee; For ne'er, till it sets, will I prove a false lover, Or think o' anither, dear lassie, but thee.



WILLIAM DOBIE.

An accomplished antiquary, and writer of verses, William Dobie was born in 1790, in the village of Beith, Ayrshire. Educated at the parish school, he was in his thirteenth year apprenticed to a mechanical profession. At the close of his apprenticeship, he commenced business in his native district. In 1822, the munificence of a wealthy relative enabled him to retire from his occupation, which had proved unsuitable to his tastes. For several years he resided in London. He subsequently made a tour through Britain, and visited the Continent. His "Perambulations in Kintyre," a manuscript volume, is frequently quoted by Mr Cosmo Innes, in his "Origines Parochiales Scotiae," a valuable work printed for the Bannatyne Club. In 1840 he prepared a history of the parish of Kilbirnie, for the "New Statistical Account." He afterwards published an account of the church and churchyard of Kilbirnie, in an interesting pamphlet. Recently Mr Dobie has superintended the erection of a monument to Sir William Wallace, on Barnweil Hill, near Kilmarnock, which has been reared at the entire cost of William Patrick, Esq., of Roughwood. The greater number of the many spirited inscriptions on the monument are the composition of Mr Dobie.



THE DREARY REIGN OF WINTER 'S PAST.

AIR—'Loch Errochside.'

The dreary reign of Winter 's past, The frost, the snow, the surly blast, To polar hills are scouring fast; For balmy Spring 's returning. Adown Glen-Garnock's lonely vale, The torrent's voice has ceased to wail; But soft low notes, borne on the gale, Dispel dull gloom and mourning.

With toil and long fatigue depress'd, Exhausted nature sunk oppress'd, Till waken'd from her slumbering rest, By balmy Spring returning. Now in flower'd vesture, green and gay, Lovelier each succeeding day; Soon from her face shall pass away, Each trace of Winter's mourning.

Lo, at her mild benign command, Life rouses up on every hand; While bursts of joy o'er all the land, Hail balmy Spring returning. E'en murmuring stream and raving linn, And solemn wood in softened din, All join great Nature's praise to hymn, That fled is Winter's mourning.

While all on earth, and in the skies, In transports fervently rejoice, Shall man refuse to raise his voice, And welcome Spring returning? If such ingrates exist below, They ne'er can feel the sacred glow, That Nature and the Muse bestow, To cheer the gloom of mourning.



ROBERT HENDRY, M.D.

A man of unobtrusive literary merit, and no inconsiderable poetical ability, Robert Hendry was born at Paisley on the 7th October 1791. Descended from a respectable family in Morayshire, his paternal great-grandfather fixed his residence in Glasgow. His grandfather, after serving as a lieutenant under the Duke of Cumberland in Holland, quitted the army, and settled as a silk manufacturer in Paisley. Under the name of "The Hollander," this gentleman had the distinction of being lampooned by Alexander Wilson, during the days of his hot youth, prior to his embarkation for America. Of his two sons, the elder removed to London, where he became senior Alderman, and died on the eve of his nomination as Lord Mayor.

The grandson of "The Hollander," by his second son, the subject of this memoir, was, in his twelfth year, apprenticed to his maternal uncle, a medical practitioner. On the completion of a course of philosophical and medical study at the University of Glasgow, he obtained his diploma, and settled as a surgeon in his native town. Amidst due attention to his professional duties, he became ardently devoted to literary pursuits. Besides conducting several local periodicals, he contributed to some of the more important serials. During the year 1826, which proved so disastrous to the manufacturing interests in Paisley, he devised a scheme for the relief of the unemployed, and his services were appropriately acknowledged by the magistrates. He afterwards sought the general improvement of the burgh, and among many other fiscal and sanitary reforms, succeeded in introducing into the place a supply of excellent water. Declining the provostship offered him by the Town Council, he retired a few years since to the village of Helensburgh, where he continues to reside.

Dr Hendry was an intimate acquaintance of Tannahill; and afterwards ranked among his friends the poet Motherwell and Robert Archibald Smith. He has at various time contributed verses to the periodicals. Latterly his attention has been more especially directed to scientific pursuits.



OH, LET NA GANG YON BONNIE LASSIE.

Oh, let na gang yon bonnie lassie Cam' to see you a' yestreen; A winning gate 's about that lassie, Something mair than meets the een. Had she na baked the Christmas pasty, Think ye it had been sae fine? Or yet the biscuit sae delicious That we crumpit to the wine?

Her ringlets are the gift o' nature, Flowing gracefu' o'er her brow; The turn, the hue o' ilka feature, Form, and colour, nature drew. She 's meikle sought, and meikle thought o', Lang unwedded canna be; Wi' kindness court the comely creature, Cast the glaumrie o'er her e'e.

Have ye an ear can be delighted? Like a seraph she can sing, Wi' charming grace and witching manner, Thrilling o'er the music string. Her tell the tale that moves to pity, But wi' heart and feeling speak; Then watch the turn o' ilka feature, Kiss the tear that weets her cheek.

She sooms na aye in silk or satin, Flaunting like a modern belle; Her robe and plaid 's the simple tartan, Sweet and modest like hersel'. The shapely robe adorns her person That her eident hand wad sew; The plaid sae graceful flung around her, 'Twas her tastefu' manner threw.

She 'll mak' a thrifty loving woman To a kind weel-doing man, Forby a tender-hearted mother— Win the lassie if ye can. For weel she 's worth your heart and treasure; May your bridal day be near— Then half a score o' bairns hereafter— May ye live a hunder year.



HEW AINSLIE.

Hew Ainslie was born on the 5th April 1792, at Bargeny Mains, in the parish of Dailly, and county of Ayr. Receiving the rudiments of education from a private teacher in his father's house, he entered the parish school of Ballantrae in his tenth year, and afterwards became a pupil in the academy of Ayr. A period of bad health induced him to forego the regular prosecution of learning, and, having quitted the academy, he accepted employment as an assistant landscape gardener on the estate of Sir Hew Dalrymple Hamilton. At the age of sixteen he entered the writing chambers of a legal gentleman in Glasgow, but the confinement of the office proving uncongenial, he took a hasty departure, throwing himself on the protection of some relatives at Roslin, near Edinburgh. His father's family soon after removed to Roslin, and through the kindly interest of Mr Thomas Thomson, Deputy-Clerk Register, he procured a clerkship in the General Register House, Edinburgh. For some months he acted as amanuensis to Professor Dugald Stewart, in transcribing his last work for the press.

Having entered into the married state, and finding the salary of his office in the Register House unequal to the comfortable maintenance of his family, he resolved to emigrate to the United States, in the hope of bettering his circumstances. Arriving at New York in July 1822, he made purchase of a farm in that State, and there resided the three following years. He next made a trial of the Social System of Robert Owen, at New Harmony, but abandoned the project at the close of a year. In 1827 he entered into partnership with Messrs Price & Wood, brewers, in Cincinnati, and set up a branch of the establishment at Louisville. Removing to New Albany, Indiana, he there built a large brewery for a joint-stock company, and in 1832 erected in that place similar premises on his own account. The former was ruined by the great Ohio flood of 1832, and the latter perished by fire in 1834. He has since followed the occupation of superintending the erection of mills and factories; and has latterly fixed his abode in Jersey, a suburb of New York.

Early imbued with the love of song, Mr Ainslie composed verses when a youth on the mountains of Carrick. A visit to his native country in 1820 revived the ardour of his muse; and shortly before his departure to America, he published the whole of his rhyming effusions in a duodecimo volume, with the title, "Pilgrimage to the Land of Burns." A second volume from his pen, entitled, "Scottish Songs, Ballads, and Poems," was in 1855 published at New York.



THE HAMEWARD SANG.

Each whirl of the wheel, Each step brings me nearer The hame of my youth— Every object grows dearer. Thae hills and thae huts, And thae trees on that green, Losh! they glower in my face Like some kindly auld frien'.

E'en the brutes they look social, As gif they would crack; And the sang o' the birds Seems to welcome me back. Oh, dear to our hearts Is the hand that first fed us, And dear is the land And the cottage that bred us.

And dear are the comrades With whom we once sported, And dearer the maiden Whose love we first courted. Joy's image may perish, E'en grief die away; But the scenes of our youth Are recorded for aye.



DOWIE IN THE HINT O' HAIRST.

Its dowie in the hint o' hairst, At the wa'-gang o' the swallow, When the wind grows cauld, and the burns grow bauld, And the wuds are hingin' yellow; But oh, its dowier far to see The wa-gang o' her the heart gangs wi', The dead-set o' a shinin' e'e— That darkens the weary warld on thee.

There was mickle love atween us twa— Oh, twa could ne'er be fonder; And the thing on yird was never made, That could hae gart us sunder. But the way of heaven's aboon a' ken, And we maun bear what it likes to sen'— It's comfort, though, to weary men, That the warst o' this warld's waes maun en'.

There's mony things that come and gae, Just kent, and just forgotten; And the flowers that busk a bonnie brae, Gin anither year lie rotten. But the last look o' that lovely e'e, And the dying grip she gae to me, They're settled like eternitie— Oh, Mary! that I were wi' thee.



ON WI' THE TARTAN.

Can you lo'e, my dear lassie, The hills wild and free; Whar' the sang o' the shepherd Gars a' ring wi' glee? Or the steep rocky glens, Where the wild falcons bide? Then on wi' the tartan, And, fy, let us ride!

Can ye lo'e the knowes, lassie, That ne'er war in rigs? Or the bonnie loune lee, Where the sweet robin bigs? Or the sang o' the lintie, Whan wooin' his bride? Then on wi' the tartan, And, fy, let us ride!

Can ye lo'e the burn, lassie, That loups amang linns? Or the bonnie green howmes, Where it cannilie rins, Wi' a cantie bit housie, Sae snug by its side? Then on wi' the tartan, And, fy, let us ride!



THE ROVER O' LOCHRYAN.

The Rover o' Lochryan, he's gane, Wi' his merry men sae brave; Their hearts are o' the steel, an' a better keel Ne'er bowl'd owre the back o' a wave. Its no when the loch lies dead in his trough When naething disturbs it ava; But the rack and the ride o' the restless tide, Or the splash o' the gray sea-maw.

Its no when the yawl an' the light skiffs crawl Owre the breast o' the siller sea; That I look to the west for the bark I lo'e best, An' the rover that's dear to me, But when that the clud lays its cheek to the flud, An' the sea lays its shouther to the shore; When the win' sings high, and the sea-whaup's cry, As they rise frae the whitening roar.

Its then that I look to the thickening rook, An' watch by the midnight tide; I ken the wind brings my rover hame, An' the sea that he glories to ride. Oh, merry he sits 'mang his jovial crew, Wi' the helm heft in his hand, An' he sings aloud to his boys in blue, As his e'e's upon Galloway's land:

"Unstent and slack each reef an' tack, Gae her sail, boys, while it may sit; She has roar'd through a heavier sea afore, An' she'll roar through a heavier yet. When landsmen sleep, or wake an' creep, In the tempest's angry moan, We dash through the drift, and sing to the lift O' the wave that heaves us on."



THE LAST LOOK O' HAME.

Bare was our burn brae, December's blast had blawn, The last flower was dead, An' the brown leaf had fa'n: It was dark in the deep glen, Hoary was our hill; An' the win' frae the cauld north, Cam' heavy and chill:

When I said fare-ye-weel, To my kith and my kin; My barque it lay ahead, An' my cot-house ahin'; I had nought left to tine, I'd a wide warl' to try; But my heart it wadna lift, An' my e'e it wadna dry.

I look'd lang at the ha', Through the mist o' my tears, Where the kind lassie lived, I had run wi' for years; E'en the glens where we sat, Wi' their broom-covered knowes, Took a haud on this heart That I ne'er can unloose.

I hae wander'd sin' syne, By gay temples and towers, Where the ungather'd spice Scents the breeze in their bowers; Oh! sic scenes I could leave Without pain or regret; But the last look o' hame I ne'er can forget.



THE LADS AN' THE LAND FAR AWA'.

AIR—'My ain fireside.'

When I think on the lads an' the land I hae left, An' how love has been lifted, an' friendship been reft; How the hinnie o' hope has been jumbled wi' ga', Then I sigh for the lads an' the land far awa'.

When I think on the days o' delight we hae seen, When the flame o' the spirit would spark in the e'en; Then I say, as in sorrow I think on ye a', Where will I find hearts like the hearts far awa?

When I think on the nights we hae spent hand in hand, Wi' mirth for our sowther, and friendship our band, This world gets dark; but ilk night has a daw', And I yet may rejoice in the land far awa'!



MY BONNIE WEE BELL.

My bonnie wee Bell was a mitherless bairn, Her aunty was sour, an' her uncle was stern; While her cousin was aft in a cankersome mood; But that hinder'd na Bell growing bonnie and gude.

When we ran to the schule, I was aye by her han', To wyse off the busses, or help owre a stran'; An' as aulder we grew, a' the neighbours could tell Hoo my liking grew wi' thee, my bonnie wee Bell.

Thy cousin gangs dinkit, thy cousin gangs drest, In her silks and her satins, the brawest and best; But the gloss o' a cheek, the glint o' an e'e, Are jewels frae heaven, nae tocher can gie.

Some goud, an' some siller, my auld gutcher left, An' in houses an' mailins I'll soon be infeft; I've a vow in the heaven, I've an aith wi' thysel', I'll make room in this world for thee, bonnie Bell.



WILLIAM THOMSON.

William Thomson was born in 1797, in the village of Kennoway, Fifeshire. He has constantly resided in his native place. After obtaining an ordinary education at the parish school, he engaged in the business of a manufacturer. Relinquishing this occupation, he became a grocer and general merchant; and since 1824, he has held the office of Postmaster. He composed verses at an early period. In 1825, some of his verses appeared in the Paisley Advertiser, and the favour with which they were received induced him to offer some poetical compositions to the Fife Herald, a newspaper which had just been established in the capital of his native county. Under the signature of Theta, he has since been a regular contributor of verses to that journal. He has likewise contributed articles in prose and poetry to other newspapers and some of the periodicals.



THE MAIDEN TO HER REAPING HOOK.

The soldier waves the shining sword, the shepherd boy his crook, The boatman plies the splashing oar, but well I love the hook. When swift I haste at sunny morn, unto the spreading plain, And view before me, like a sea, the fields of golden grain, And listen to the cheerful sound of harvest's echoing horn, Or join the merry reaper band, that gather in the corn; How sweet the friendly welcoming, how gladsome every look, Ere we begin, with busy hands, to wield the Reaping Hook.

My Reaping Hook! my Reaping Hook! I love thee better far, Than glancing spear and temper'd sword, bright instruments of war; As thee I grasp with willing hand, and feel a reaper's glee, When, waving in the rustling breeze, the ripen'd field I see; Or listen to the harmless jest, the bandsman's cheerful song, The hearty laugh, the rustic mirth, while mingling 'mid the throng; With joy I see the well-fill'd sheaf, and mark each rising stook, As thee I ply with agile arm, my trusty Reaping Hook!

They tell of glorious battle-fields, strew'd thick with heaps of slain! Alas! the triumphs of the sword bring only grief and pain; But thou, my shining Reaping Hook, the symbol art of peace, And fill'st a thousand families with smiles and happiness; While conquering warrior's burning brand, amid his gory path, The emblem is of pain and woe, of man's destructive wrath. Soon therefore may the spear give place unto the shepherd's crook, And the conqueror's flaming sword be turn'd into a Reaping Hook!



ALEXANDER SMART.

Alexander Smart was born at Montrose on the 26th April 1798. His father was a respectable shoemaker in the place. A portion of his school education was conducted under the care of one Norval, a teacher in the Montrose Academy, whose mode of infusing knowledge he has not unjustly satirised in his poem, entitled "Recollections of Auld Lang Syne." Norval was a model among the tyrant pedagogues of the past; and as an illustration of Scottish school life fifty years since, we present our author's reminiscences of the despot. "Gruesome in visage and deformed in body, his mind reflected the grim and tortuous aspects of his person. The recollection of his monstrous cruelties,—his cruel flagellations,—is still unaccountably depressing. One day of horrors I shall never cease to remember. Every Saturday he caused the pupils to repeat a prayer which he had composed for their use; and in hearing which he stood over each with a paper ruler, ready, in the event of omission of word or phrase, to strike down the unfortunate offender, who all the while drooped tremblingly before him. On one of these days of extorted prayer, I was found at fault in my grammar lesson, and the offence was deemed worthy of peculiar castigation. The school was dismissed at the usual time, but, along with a few other boys who were to become witnesses of my punishment and disgrace, I was detained in the class-room, and dragged to the presence of the tyrant. Despite of his every effort, I resisted being bound to the bench, and flogged after the fashion of the times. So the punishment was commuted into 'palmies.' Horrible commutation! Sixty lashes with leather thongs on my right hand, inflicted with all the severity of a tyrant's wrath, made me scream in the anguish of desperation. My pitiless tormentor, unmoved by the sight of my hand sorely lacerated, and swollen to twice its natural size, threatened to cut out my tongue if I continued to complain; and so saying, laid hold on a pair of scissors, and inflicted a deep cut on my lip. The horrors of the day fortunately emancipated me from the further control of the despot."

At another seminary Smart completed his education. He was now apprenticed to a watchmaker in his native town, his hours of leisure being sedulously devoted to the perusal of the more distinguished British poets. It was his delight to repeat his favourite passages in solitary rambles on the sea beach. In 1819, on the completion of his apprenticeship, he proceeded to Edinburgh, where, during a period of six months, he wrought at his trade. But the sedentary life of a watchmaker proving injurious to his health, he was led to seek employment in a printing-office. Soon after, he became editor, printer, and publisher of the Montrose Chronicle, a newspaper which was originated in his native town, but which proved unsuccessful. He thereafter held an appointment in the office of the Dundee Courier. Returning to Edinburgh, he accepted employment as a pressman in a respectable printing-office, and afterwards attained the position of press overseer in one of the most important printing establishments of the city.

In his twentieth year Smart adventured on the composition of verses, but being dissatisfied with his efforts, he consigned them to oblivion. He subsequently renewed his invocation of the Muse, and in 1834 published a small duodecimo volume of poems and songs, entitled "Rambling Rhymes." This publication attracted considerable attention, and secured for the author the personal favour of Lord Jeffrey. He also received the commendation of Thomas Campbell, Charles Dickens, Thomas Babington Macaulay, Charles Mackay, and other literary and poetical celebrities. A new and enlarged edition of his volume appeared in 1845, and was dedicated by permission to Lord Jeffrey.

Smart was one of the principal contributors to "Whistle Binkie." At different periods he has composed excellent prose essays and sketches, some of which have appeared in Hogg's Instructor. Those papers entitled "Burns and his Ancestors," "Leaves from an Autobiography," and "Scenes from the Life of a Sufferer," may be especially enumerated. Of a peculiarly nervous temperament, he has more than once experienced the miseries of mental aberration. Latterly he has completely recovered his health, and living in Edinburgh with his wife and family, he divides his time between the mechanical labours of the printing-office and the more congenial pursuits of literature.



WHEN THE BEE HAS LEFT THE BLOSSOM.

When the bee has left the blossom, And the lark has closed his lay, And the daisy folds its bosom In the dews of gloaming gray; When the virgin rose is bending, Wet with evening's pensive tear, And the purple light is blending With the soft moon rising clear;

Meet me then, my own true maiden, Where the wild flowers shed their bloom And the air with fragrance laden, Breathes around a rich perfume. With my true love as I wander, Captive led by beauty's power, Thoughts and feelings sweet and tender Hallow that delightful hour.

Give ambition dreams of glory, Give the poet laurell'd fame, Let renown in song and story Consecrate the hero's name; Give the great their pomp and pleasure, Give the courtier place and power; Give to me my bosom's treasure, And the lonely gloaming hour.



OH, LEAVE ME NOT.

Oh, leave me not! the evening hour, So soft, so still, is all our own; The dew descends on tree and flower, They breathe their sweets for thee alone. Oh, go not yet! the evening star, The rising moon, all bid thee stay; And dying echoes, faint and far, Invite our lingering steps to stray.

Far from the city's noisy din, Beneath the pale moon's trembling light, That lip to press, those smiles to win, Will lend a rapture to the night. Let fortune fling her favours free To whom she will, I'll ne'er repine: Oh, what is all the world to me, While thus I clasp and call thee mine!



NEVER DESPAIR.

Never despair! when the dark cloud is lowering, The sun, though obscured, never ceases to shine; Above the black tempest his radiance is pouring While faithless and faint-hearted mortals repine. The journey of life has its lights and its shadows, And Heaven in its wisdom to each sends a share; Though rough be the road, yet with reason to guide us, And courage to conquer, we'll never despair!

Never despair! when with troubles contending, Make labour and patience a sword and a shield, And win brighter laurels, with courage unbending, Than ever were gained on the blood-tainted field. As gay as the lark in the beam of the morning, When young hearts spring upward to do and to dare, The bright star of promise their future adorning, Will light them along, and they'll never despair!

The oak in the tempest grows strong by resistance, The arm at the anvil gains muscular power, And firm self-reliance, that seeks no assistance, Goes onward, rejoicing, through sunshine and shower; For life is a struggle, to try and to prove us, And true hearts grow stronger by labour and care, While Hope, like a seraph, still whispers above us,— Look upward and onward, and never despair!



JOHN DUNLOP.

The author of some popular songs, and of four volumes of MS. poetry, John Dunlop is entitled to a place in the catalogue of Caledonian lyrists. The younger son of Colin Dunlop of Carmyle, he was born in November 1755, in the mansion of the paternal estate, in the parish of Old Monkland, and county of Lanark. Commencing his career as a merchant in Glasgow, he was in 1796 elevated to the Lord Provostship of the city. He afterwards accepted the office of Collector of Customs at Borrowstounness, and subsequently occupied the post of Collector at Port-Glasgow. His death took place at Port-Glasgow, in October 1820.

Possessed of fine poetic tastes and an elegant fancy, Dunlop composed verses on every variety of theme, with facility and power. His MS. volumes, which have been kindly submitted to our inspection by a descendant, and from which we have made some extracts, contain numerous poetical compositions worthy of being presented to the public. A vein of humour pervades the majority of his verses; in the elegiac strain he is eminently plaintive. He is remembered as a man of excellent dispositions and eminent social qualities: he sung with grace the songs of his country, and delighted in humorous conversation. His elder brother was proprietor of Garnkirk, and his son, who bore the same Christian name, became Sheriff of Renfrewshire. The latter is entitled to remembrance as the author of "The History of Fiction."



THE YEAR THAT'S AWA'.

Here's to the year that's awa'! We will drink it in strong and in sma'; And here's to ilk bonnie young lassie we lo'ed, While swift flew the year that's awa'. And here's to ilk, &c.

Here's to the sodger who bled, And the sailor who bravely did fa'; Their fame is alive, though their spirits are fled On the wings of the year that's awa'. Their fame is alive, &c.

Here's to the friends we can trust When the storms of adversity blaw; May they live in our song, and be nearest our hearts, Nor depart like the year that's awa'. May they live, &c.



OH, DINNA ASK ME.

TUNE—'Comin' through the rye.'

Oh, dinna ask me gin I lo'e thee; Troth, I daurna tell: Dinna ask me gin I lo'e ye; Ask it o' yoursel'.

Oh, dinna look sae sair at me, For weel ye ken me true; Oh, gin ye look sae sair at me, I daurna look at you.

When ye gang to yon braw, braw town, And bonnie lassies see, Oh, dinna, Jamie, look at them, Lest you should mind na me.

For I could never bide the lass That ye'd lo'e mair than me; And oh, I'm sure, my heart would break, Gin ye'd prove false to me.



LOVE FLIES THE HAUNTS OF POMP AND POWER[9]

Love flies the haunts of pomp and power, To find the calm retreat; Loathing he leaves the velvet couch, To seek the moss-grown seat.

Splendid attire and gilded crowns Can ne'er with love accord; But russet robes, and rosy wreathes, His purest joys afford.

From pride, from business, and from care, His greatest sorrows flow; When these usurp the heart of man, That heart he ne'er can know.

FOOTNOTES:

[9] This lyric and the following are printed from the author's MSS.



WAR.

TUNE—'Where they go, where they go.'

For twenty years and more, Bloody war, Bloody war; For twenty years and more, Bloody war. For twenty years and more We heard the cannons roar To swell the tide of gore, Bloody war!

A tyrant on a throne We have seen, We have seen; A tyrant on a throne Who thought the earth his own, But now is hardly known To have been.

Who rung the loud alarm To be free, To be free? Who rung the loud alarm To be free? 'Twas Britain broke the charm, And with her red right arm She rung the loud alarm To be free.

The battle van she led Of the brave, Of the brave; The battle van she led Of the brave; The battle van she led, Till tyranny lay dead, And glory crown'd the head Of the brave.

Give honour to the brave Where they lie, Where they lie; Give honour to the brave Where they lie; Give honour to the brave, And sacred be the grave, On land or in the wave, Where they lie.



WILLIAM BLAIR.

William Blair, author of "The Highland Maid," was, in the year 1800, born at Dunfermline. The son of respectable parents of the industrial class, he received an ordinary education at the burgh school. Apprenticed to the loom, he became known as a writer of verses; and having attracted the notice of an officer's lady, then resident in the place, he was at her expense sent to the grammar school. Having made some progress in classical learning, he was recommended for educational employment in Dollar Academy; but no suitable situation being vacant at the period of his application, he was led to despair of emanating from the humble condition of his birth. A settled melancholy was afterwards succeeded by symptoms of permanent imbecility. For a number of years Blair has been an inmate of the Dunfermline poor house.



THE HIGHLAND MAID.

Again the laverock seeks the sky, And warbles, dimly seen; And summer views, wi' sunny joy, Her gowany robe o' green. But ah! the summer's blithe return, In flowery pride array'd, Nae mair can cheer this heart forlorn, Or charm the Highland Maid.

My true love fell by Charlie's side, Wi' mony a clansman dear; That fatal day—oh, wae betide The cruel Southron's spear! His bonnet blue is fallen now, And bluidy is the plaid, That aften on the mountain's brow, Has wrapt his Highland Maid.

My father's shieling on the hill Is dowie now and sad; The breezes whisper round me still, I 've lost my Highland lad. Upon Culloden's fatal heath, He spake o' me, they said, And falter'd, wi' his dying breath, "Adieu, my Highland Maid!"

The weary nicht for rest I seek, The langsome day I mourn; The smile upon my wither'd cheek Can never mair return. But soon beneath the sod I 'll lie, In yonder lonely glade; And, haply, ilka passer by Will mourn the Highland Maid.



THE NEAPOLITAN WAR SONG.[10]

TUNE—"Brian the Brave."

Your foes are at hand, and the brand that they wield, Soon, soon will emblazon your plain; But, ah! may the arm of the brave be your shield, And the song of the victory your strain. Remember the fetters and chains that are wove, And fated by slavery's decree, Are not like the fetters of union and love, That bind and encircle the free.

Though rich be your fields, they will blight in their bloom, With the glow of the patriot's fires; And the sun that now gladdens, shall sink into gloom, And grow dark when your freedom expires. Be yours, then, the triumph to brave ones that 's meet, And your country, with laurels in store, Each weary and toil-worn warrior will greet When the tumult of battle is o'er.

FOOTNOTES:

[10] Here printed for the first time.



ARCHIBALD MACKAY.

Archibald Mackay was born at Kilmarnock in 1801. Receiving a common school education, he was apprenticed to a handloom weaver. Abandoning the loom, he subsequently acquired a knowledge of bookbinding, and has continued to prosecute that trade. From his youth devoted to the Muse, he produced in 1828 a metrical tale, entitled "Drouthy Tam," which, passing through numerous editions, brought a local reputation to the writer. In 1830 he published a small volume of poems, and in 1832 a little work in prose and verse, entitled "Recreations of Leisure Hours." In 1848 appeared from his pen a "History of Kilmarnock," in a well-written octavo volume. A collection of his best songs was published in 1855, under the title of "Ingleside Lilts." Mackay has contributed extensively to the local journals, and has established a circulating library for the benefit of his fellow-townsmen.



OUR AULD SCOTS SANGS.

AIR—"Traveller's Return."

Oh, weel I lo'e our auld Scots sangs, The mournfu' and the gay; They charm'd me by a mither's knee, In bairnhood's happy day: And even yet, though owre my pow The snaws of age are flung, The bluid loups joyfu' in my veins Whene'er I hear them sung.

They bring the fond smile to the cheek, Or tear-drap to the e'e; They bring to mind auld cronies kind, Wha sung them aft wi' glee. We seem again to hear the voice Of mony a lang-lost frien'; We seem again to grip the hand That lang in dust has been.

And, oh, how true our auld Scots sangs When nature they portray! We think we hear the wee bit burn Gaun bickering doun the brae; We see the spot, though far awa', Where first life's breath we drew, And a' the gowden scenes of youth Seem rising to the view.

And dear I lo'e the wild war strains Our langsyne minstrels sung— They rouse wi' patriotic fires The hearts of auld and young; And even the dowie dirge that wails Some brave but ruin'd band, Inspires us wi' a warmer love For hame and fatherland.

Yes, leese me on our auld Scots sangs— The sangs of love and glee, The sangs that tell of glorious deeds That made auld Scotland free. What though they sprung frae simple bards, Wha kent nae rules of art? They ever, ever yield a charm That lingers round the heart.



MY LADDIE LIES LOW.

Alas! how true the boding voice That whisper'd aft to me, "Thy bonnie lad will ne'er return To Scotland or to thee!" Oh! true it spoke, though hope the while Shed forth its brightest beam; For low in death my laddie lies By Alma's bloody stream.

I heard the village bells proclaim That glorious deeds were done; I heard wi' joy the gladsome shout, "The field, the field is won!" And I thought my lad, wi' glory crown'd, Might come to me again; But vain the thought! cold, cold he lies On Alma's gory plain.

Oh! woe to him whose thirst for power Has roll'd the bolts of war, And made my laddie bleed and die Frae hame and friends afar. Alas! his form I ne'er shall see, Except in fancy's dream; For low he lies, where brave he fought, By Alma's bloody stream.



JOUK AND LET THE JAW GAE BY.

AIR—"Jockie's Gray Breeks."

Oh! say not life is ever drear, For midst its scenes of toil and care There 's aye some joy the heart to cheer— There 's aye some spot that 's green and fair. To gain that spot the aim be ours, For nocht we 'll get unless we try; And when misfortune round us lours, We 'll jouk and let the jaw gae by.

The wee bit flow'ret in the glen Maun bend beneath the surly blast; The birdie seeks some leafy den, And shelters till the storm is past: The "owrie sheep," when winds blaw snell, To some lowne spot for refuge hie; And sae, frae ills we canna quell, We 'll jouk and let the jaw gae by.

Yet there are ills we a' should brave— The ills that man on man would throw; For oh! he 's but a thowless slave, That patient bears Oppression's woe. But if 'tis but the taunts of pride, Of envy's tongue that would annoy, 'Tis nobler far to turn aside, And jouk and let the jaw gae by.

In worldly gear we may be bare, We may hae mony a dreary hour; But never, never nurse despair, For ilka ane maun taste the sour: Even kings themsels, wi' a' their power, Wi' a' their pomp and honours high, 'Neath adverse blasts are forced to cower, And jouk to let the jaw gae by.

But mark this truth—the ills that blight Are aft the fruits that folly brings; Then shun the wrong, pursue the right— Frae this the truest pleasure springs; And fret not though dark clouds should spread At times across life's troubled sky; Sweet sunshine will the gloom succeed— Sae jouk and let the jaw gae by.



VICTORIOUS BE AGAIN, BOYS.

Hurrah! hurrah! we 've glory won, And brighter blazes freedom's sun; But daring deeds must yet be done To curb Oppression's reign, boys. Like wintry clouds in masses roll'd, Our foes are thick'ning on the wold; Then up! then up! be firm—be bold— Victorious be again, boys.

The hearts—the blessings of the brave— Of those who scorn the name of slave, Are with you on the ocean's wave, And on the battle-plain, boys: Then rouse ye, rouse ye, every one, And gird your brightest armour on; Complete the work so well begun— Victorious be again, boys!

Though red with gore your path may be, It leads to glorious liberty; Remember, God is with the free, The brave He will sustain, boys: The tyrant fears the coming fight, He fears the power of Truth and Right; Then up! then up! in all your might— Victorious be again, boys.



WILLIAM AIR FOSTER.

The author of some spirited effusions in Scottish verse, William Air Foster, was born at Coldstream on the 16th June 1801. He has followed the occupation of a bootmaker, first in his native town, and latterly in Glasgow. Devoted to the Border sports, in which he was formerly an active performer, he has celebrated them in animated verse. To "Whistle Binkie" he has contributed a number of sporting and angling songs, and he has composed some volumes of poetry which are still in manuscript.



FAREWEEL TO SCOTIA.

Fareweel to ilk hill whar the red heather grows, To ilk bonnie green glen whar the mountain stream rows, To the rock that re-echoes the torrent's wild din, To the graves o' my sires, and the hearths o' my kin.

Fareweel to ilk strath an' the lav'rock's sweet sang— For trifles grow dear whan we 've kenn'd them sae lang; Round the wanderer's heart a bright halo they shed, A dream o' the past, when a' other's hae fled.

The young hearts may kythe, though they 're forced far away, But its dool to the spirit when haffets are gray; The saplin transplanted may flourish a tree, Whar the hardy auld aik wad but wither and dee.

They tell me I gang whar the tropic suns shine Owre landscapes as lovely and fragrant as thine; For the objects sae dear that the heart had entwined Turn eerisome hame-thoughts, and sicken the mind.

No, my spirit shall stray whar the red heather grows! In the bonnie green glen whar the mountain stream rows, 'Neath the rock that re-echoes the torrent's wild din, 'Mang the graves o' my sires, round the hearths o' my kin.



THE FALCON'S FLIGHT.

AIR—"There 's nae luck about the house."

I sing of gentle woodcroft gay, for well I love to rove, With the spaniel at my side and the falcon on my glove; For the noble bird which graced my hand I feel my spirit swell, Array'd in all her hunting-gear—hood, jessy, leash, and bell.

I have watch'd her through the moult, till her castings all were pure, And have steep'd and clean'd each gorge ere 'twas fix'd upon the lure; While now to field or forest glade I can my falcon bring Without a pile of feather wrong, on body, breast, or wing.

When drawn the leash, and slipt the hood, her eye beams black and bright, And from my hand the gallant bird is cast upon her flight; Away she darts, on pinions free, above the mountains far, Until in less'ning size she seems no bigger than a star.

Away, away, in farthest flight I feel no fear or dread, When a whistle or a whoop brings her tow'ring o'er my head; While poised on moveless wing, from her voice a murmur swells, To speak her presence near, above the chiming from her bells.

'Tis Rover's bark—halloo! see the broad-wing'd heron rise, And soaring round my falcon queen, above her quarry flies, With outstretch'd neck the wary game shoots for the covert nigh; But o'er him for a settled stoop my hawk is tow'ring high.

My falcon 's tow'ring o'er him with an eye of fire and pride, Her pinions strong, with one short pull, are gather'd to her side, When like a stone from off the sling, or bolt from out the bow, In meteor flight, with sudden dart, she stoops upon her foe.

The vanquish'd and the vanquisher sink rolling round and round, With wounded wing the quarried game falls heavy on the ground. Away, away, my falcon fair has spread her buoyant wings, While on the ear her silver voice as clear as metal rings.

Though high her soar, and far her flight, my whoop has struck her ear, And reclaiming for the lure, o'er my head she sallies near. No other sport like falconry can make the bosom glow, When flying at the stately game, or raking at the crow.

Who mews a hawk must nurse her as a mother would her child, And soothe the wayward spirit of a thing so fierce and wild; Must woo her like a bride, while with love his bosom swells For the noble bird that bears the hood, the jessy, leash, and bells.



THE SALMON RUN.

AIR—"The brave old Oak."

Oh! away to the Tweed, To the beautiful Tweed, My much-loved native stream; Where the fish from his hold, 'Neath some cataract bold, Starts up like a quivering gleam.

From his iron-bound keep, Far down in the deep, He holds on his sovereign sway; Or darts like a lance, Or the meteor's glance, Afar on his bright-wing'd prey.

As he roves through the tide, Then his clear glitt'ring side Is burnish'd with silver and gold; And the sweep of his flight Seems a rainbow of light, As again he sinks down in his hold.

With a soft western breeze, That just thrills through the trees, And ripples the beautiful bay; Throw the fly for a lure— That 's a rise! strike him sure— A clean fish—with a burst he 's away.

Hark! the ravel line sweel, From the fast-whirring reel, With a music that gladdens the ear; And the thrill of delight, In that glorious fight, To the heart of the angler is dear.

Hold him tight—for the leap; Where the waters are deep, Give out line in the far steady run; Reel up quick, if he tire, Though the wheel be on fire, For in earnest to work he 's begun.

Aroused up at length, How he rolls in his strength, And springs with a quivering bound; Then away with a dash, Like the lightning's flash, Far o'er the smooth pebbly ground.

Though he strain on the thread, Down the stream with his head, That burst from the run makes him cool; Then spring out for the land, On the rod change the hand, And draw down for the deepening pool.

Mark the gleam of his side, As he shoots through the tide! Are the dyes of the dolphin more fair? Fatigue now begins, For his quivering fins On the shallows are spread in despair.



CHARLES MARSHALL.

The Rev. Charles Marshall, author of "Homely Words and Songs for Working Men and Women," is a native of Paisley. In early life he was engaged in mercantile concerns. At the University of Glasgow he studied for two sessions, and in 1826 completed a philosophical curriculum at the University of Edinburgh. In the following year he was chosen governor of John Watson's Institution, Edinburgh, where he remained for thirteen years. During that time the directors of the institution expressed their approbation of his services by large pecuniary donations, and by increasing his official emoluments. In addition to these expressions of liberality, they afforded him permission to attend the Divinity Hall. In 1840, on the completion of his theological studies, he was licensed as a probationer of the Established Church. In 1841 he accepted a call to the North Extension Church, Dunfermline. At the Disruption in 1843, he adhered to the Free Church. He continues to labour as minister of the Free North Church, Dunfermline.

To the moral and religious reformation of the industrial classes, as well as the improvement of their physical condition, Mr Marshall has long been earnestly devoted. In 1853 he published a small volume of prose and poetry, addressed to industrial females, with the title, "Lays and Lectures to Scotia's Daughters of Industry." This work rapidly passed through various editions. In 1856 he appeared as the author of a similar publication, entitled "Homely Words and Songs for Working Men and Women," to which his former work has been added as a second part. For terse and homely counsels, and vigorous and manly sentiments, adapted to the peculiar feelings and condition of the Scottish peasantry, these brochures are without a parallel. Mr Marshall proposes to add to the series two other parts, addressed to "Husbands and Fathers," and to "Young Men."



THE BLESSING ON THE WARK.

I like to spring in the morning bricht, Before the mill bell rings; When waukening blithe in gowden licht, My joyfu' spirit sings.

I like to hear, when the pearly tear Gems morning's floweret cup, The trumpet summons of chanticleer Pipe "drowsy mortals up."

I tread as lightly as silent puss, While a' the household sleep; And gird me to clean and redd the house Before the bairnies cheep.

I like to dress and mak me clean As ony winsome bride; And think na shame, though my face be seen, At morn or eventide.

I like to handle, before I rin, The word o' truth and love; And seek, or the daily wark begin, Gude counsel from above.

Then skipping wi' lichtsome heart, I hie To earn my bit o' bread; The wark spins on, and the time rins by, Wi' pleasant, blessed speed.



JEWEL OF A LAD.

AIR—"Fye, gae rub her owre wi' strae."

As sunshine to the flowers in May, As wild flowers to the hinny bee, As fragrant scent o' new mown hay, So my true love is sweet to me.

As costly jewels to the bride, As beauty to the bridegroom's e'e— To sailors, as fair wind and tide, So my true love is dear to me.

As rain-draps to the thirsty earth, As waters to the willow-tree, As mother's joy at baby's birth, So my true love is dear to me.

Though owning neither wealth nor lan', He 's ane o' Heaven's pedigree; His love to God, his love to man, His goodness makes him dear to me.

The lass that weds a warly fool May laugh, and sing, and dance a wee; But earthly love soon waxes cool, And foolish fancies turn ajee.

My laddie's heart is fu' o' grace, His loving e'e blinks bonnily, A heavenly licht illumes his face; Nae wonder though he 's dear to me.



TWILIGHT JOYS.

Musing, we sat in our garden bower, In the balmy month of June, Enjoying the pensive gloamin' hour When our daily task was done.

We spake of the friends of our early days, Some living, some dead and gane, And fancy skimm'd o'er the flow'ry braes Of our morning life again.

A bless'd, a lightsome hour was that, And joyful were we to see The sunny face of ilk bonnie brat, So full of frolicsome glee.

They ran, they row'd, they warsl'd, they fell, Whiles whirl'd in a fairy ring— Our hearts ran o'er like a gushing well, And we bless'd each happy thing.

In our wee dwelling the lamp of love, Trimm'd daily by faith and prayer, Flings light on earth, on heaven above, Sheds glory everywhere.

This golden lamp shines clear and bright, When the world looks dark and doure, It brightens our morning, noon, and night, And gladdens our gloamin' hour.



WILLIAM WILSON.

William Wilson was born on the 25th December 1801, in the village of Crieff, Perthshire. His parents being of the industrial class and in indigent circumstances, he was early devoted to a life of manual labour. While employed in a factory at Dundee, some of his poetical compositions were brought under the notice of Mrs Grant, of Laggan, who interested herself in his behalf, and enabled him to begin business as a coal merchant. He married early in life, and continued after marriage to write as ardent poetry about his wife as he had done before marriage. On her death, he married a lady of respectable connexions in the county of Roxburgh. In December 1833, he emigrated to America, and has since been in business as a publisher at Poughkeepsie, in the state of New York. He has repeatedly delivered lectures to scientific institutions, and is well known to the higher class of literary men in America. Many of his earlier poems were contributed to the Edinburgh Literary Journal; and he has published several of his own and other songs, with music of his own composition.



O BLESSING ON HER STARLIKE E'EN.

O blessing on her starlike e'en, Wi' their glance o' love divine; And blessing on the red, red lip, Was press'd yestreen to mine!

Her braided locks that waved sae light, As she danced through the lofty ha', Were like the cluds on the brow o' night, Or the wing o' the hoodie craw.

O mony a jimp an' gentle dame, In jewell'd pomp was there; But she was first among them a', In peerless beauty rare!

Her bosom is a holy shrine, Unstain'd by mortal sin, An' spotless as the snaw-white foam, On the breast o' the siller linn.

Her voice—hae ye heard the goudspink's note, By bowery glen or brake? Or listen'd ye e'er to the mermaid's lay, By sea or mountain lake?

Hae ye dreamt ye heard, i' the bowers o' heaven, The angel's melodie? Or fancied ye listen'd the sang o' the spheres As they swung on their path on hie?

Far sweeter to me was her lay o' love, At the gloamin' hour yestreen; An', oh! were I king o' the warld wide, I would mak' that maiden my queen.



OH! BLESSING ON THEE, LAND.

Oh! blessing on thee, land Of love and minstrel song; For Freedom found a dwelling-place Thy mountain cliffs among! And still she loves to roam Among thy heath-clad hills; And blend her wild-wood harp's sweet strain With the voice of mountain rills.

Her song is on the gale, Her step upon the wold; And morning diamonds brightly gem Her braided locks of gold. Far up the pine-wood glen, Her sylph-like form is seen, By hunter in the hazy dawn, Or wandering bard at e'en.

My own dear native home, The birthplace of the brave, O never may thy soil be trod By tyrant or by slave! Then, blessing on thee, land Of love and minstrel song; For Freedom found a dwelling-place, Thy mountain cliffs among!



THE FAITHLESS.

We part,—yet wherefore should I weep, From faithless thing like thee to sever? Or let one tear mine eyelids steep, While thus I cast thee off for ever? I loved thee—need I say how well? Few, few have ever loved so dearly; As many a sleepless hour can tell, And many a vow breath'd too sincerely.

But late, beneath its jetty lash, I loved to mark thy blue eyes' splendour, Which wont, all witchingly, to flash On me its light so soft and tender; Now, from that glance I turn away, As if its thrilling gaze could wound me; Though not, as once, in love's young day, When thoughtless passion's fetters bound me.

The dimpling smile, with sweetness fraught, The bosom, 'mid its snow, upheaving; Who, that had seen them, could have thought That things so fair could be deceiving? The moon, the sky, the wave, the wind, In all their fitful moods of changing, Are nought to wavering woman's mind, For ever shifting, ever ranging!

Farewell! I'd rather launch my bark Upon the angry ocean billow, 'Mid wintry winds, and tempests dark, Than make thy faithless breast my pillow. Thy broken vow now cannot bind, Thy streaming tears no more can move me, And thus I turn from thee, to find A heart that may more truly love me.



MY SOUL IS EVER WITH THEE.

My soul is ever with thee, My thoughts are ever with thee, As the flower to the sun, as the lamb to the lea, So turns my fond spirit to thee.

'Mid the cares of the lingering day, When troubles around me be, Fond Fancy for aye will be flitting away— Away, my beloved, to thee.

When the night-pall darkly spread O'er shadows, tower, and tree, Then the visions of my restless bed Are all, my beloved, of thee.

When I greet the morning beams, When the midnight star I see, Alone—in crowded halls—my dreams— My dreams are for ever of thee.

As spring to the leafless spray, As calm to the surging sea, To the weary, rest—to the watcher, day— So art thou, loved Mary, to me.



AULD JOHNNY GRAHAM.

Dear Aunty, what think ye o' auld Johnny Graham? The carle sae pawkie an' slee! He wants a bit wifie to tend his bein hame, An' the body has ettled at me.

Wi' bonnet sae vaunty, an owerlay sae clean, An' ribbon that waved 'boon his bree, He cam' doun the cleugh at the gloamin' yestreen, An' rappit, an' soon speert for me.

I bade him come ben whare my minny sae thrang Was birlin' her wheel eidentlie, An', foul fa' the carle, he was na' that lang, Ere he tauld out his errand to me.

"Hech, Tibby, lass! a' yon braid acres o' land, Wi' ripe craps that wave bonnilie, An' meikle mair gear shall be at yer command, Gin' ye will look kindly on me.

"Yon herd o' fat owsen that rout i' the glen, Sax naigies that nibble the lea; The kye i' the sheugh, and the sheep i' the pen, I'se gie a', dear Tibby, to thee.

"An', lassie, I've goupins o' gowd in a stockin', An' pearlin's wad dazzle yer e'e; A mettl'd, but canny young yaud, for the yokin', When ye wad gae jauntin' wi' me.

"I 'll hap ye, and fend ye, and busk ye, and tend ye, And mak' ye the licht o' my e'e; I 'll comfort and cheer ye, and daut ye and dear ye, As couthy as couthy can be.

"I 've lo'ed ye, dear lassie, since first, a bit bairn, Ye ran up the knowe to meet me; An' deckit my bonnet wi' blue bells an' fern, Wi' meikle glad laughin' an' glee.

"An' noo woman grown, an' mensefu', an' fair, An' gracefu' as gracefu' can be— Will ye tak' an' auld carle wha ne'er had a care For woman, dear Tibby, but thee?"

Sae, Aunty, ye see I 'm a' in a swither, What answer the bodie to gie— But aften I wish he wad tak' my auld mither, And let puir young Tibby abee.



JEAN LINN.

Oh, haud na' yer noddle sae hie, ma doo! Oh, haud na' yer noddle sae hie! The days that hae been, may be yet again seen, Sae look na sae lightly on me, ma doo! Sae look na' sae lightly on me!

Oh, geck na' at hame hodden gray, Jean Linn! Oh, geck na' at hame hodden gray! Yer gutcher an mine wad thocht themsels fine, In cleedin' sae bein, bonnie May, bonnie May— In cleedin' sae bein, bonnie May.

Ye mind when we won in Whinglen, Jean Linn— Ye mind when we won in Whinglen, Your daddy, douce carle, was cotter to mine, An' our herd was yer bonnie sel', then, Jean Linn, An' our herd was yer bonnie sel', then.

Oh, then ye were a' thing to me, Jean Linn, Oh, then ye were a' thing to me! An' the moments scour'd by, like birds through the sky, When tentin' the owsen wi' thee, Jean Linn, When tentin' the owsen wi' thee.

I twined ye a bower by the burn, Jean Linn, I twined ye a bower by the burn, But dreamt na that hour, as we sat in that bower, That fortune wad tak' sic a turn, Jean Linn. That fortune wad tak' sic a turn.

Ye busk noo in satins fu' braw, Jean Linn! Ye busk noo in satins fu' braw! Yer daddy's a laird, mine 's i' the kirkyard, An' I 'm yer puir ploughman, Jock Law, Jean Linn, An' I 'm yer puir ploughman, Jock Law.



BONNIE MARY.

When the sun gaes down, when the sun gaes down, I 'll meet thee, bonnie Mary, when the sun gaes down; I 'll row my apron up, an' I 'll leave the reeky town, And meet thee by the burnie, when the sun gaes down.

By the burnie there 's a bower, we will gently lean us there, An' forget in ither's arms every earthly care, For the chiefest o' my joys, in this weary mortal roun', Is the burnside wi' Mary when the sun gaes down. When the sun gaes down, &c.

There the ruin'd castle tower on the distant steep appears, Like a hoary auld warrior faded with years; An' the burnie stealing by wi' a fairy silver soun', Will soothe us wi' its music when the sun gaes down. When the sun gaes down, &c.

The burnside is sweet when the dew is on the flower, But 'tis like a little heaven at the trystin' hour; And with pity I would look on the king who wears the crown, When wi' thee by the burnie, when the sun gaes down. When the sun gaes down, &c.

When the sun gaes down, when the sun gaes down, I 'll meet thee by the burnie, when the sun gaes down; Come in thy petticoatie, and thy little drugget gown, And I 'll meet thee, bonnie Mary, when the sun gaes down.



MRS MARY MACARTHUR.

Mrs Mary Waugh, the widow of Mr James Macarthur, merchant, Glasgow, published in 1842 a duodecimo volume of verses, with the title, "The Necropolis, and other Poems." One of the compositions in that publication, entitled "The Missionary," is inserted in the present work, as being worthy of a place among the productions of the national Muse. In early life Mrs Macarthur lived in the south of Scotland; she has for many years been resident in Glasgow.



THE MISSIONARY.

He left his native land, and, far away Across the waters sought a world unknown, Though well he knew that he in vain might stray In search of one so lovely as his own.

He left his home, around whose humble hearth His parents, kindred, all he valued, smil'd— Friends who had known and loved him from his birth, And who still loved him as a fav'rite child.

He left the scenes by youthful hopes endear'd, The woods, the streams, that sooth'd his infant ear; The plants, the trees that he himself had rear'd, And every charm to love and fancy dear.

All these he left, with sad but willing heart, Though unallur'd by honours, wealth, or fame; In them not even his wishes claim'd a part, And the world knew not of his very name.

Canst thou not guess what taught his steps to stray? 'Twas love, but not such love as worldlings own, That often smiles its sweetest to betray, And stabs the breast that offered it a throne!

'Twas love to God, and love to all mankind! His Master bade the obedient servant go, And try if he in distant realms could find Some who His name and saving grace would know.

'Twas this that nerved him when he saw the tears His aged mother at their parting shed; 'Twas this that taught her how to calm her fears, And beg a heavenly blessing on his head.

'Twas this that made his father calmly bear A godly sorrow, deep, but undismay'd, And bade him humbly ask of God in prayer, His virtuous son to counsel, guide, and aid.

And when he rose to bless, and wish him well, And bent a head with age and sorrow gray— E'en when he breath'd a fond and last farewell, Half sad, half joyful, dashed his tears away.

"And go," he said, "though I with mortal eyes Shall ne'er behold thy filial reverence more; But when from earth to heaven our spirits rise, The Hand that gave him shall my child restore.

"I bid thee go, though human tears will steal From eyes that see the course thou hast to run; And God forgive me if I wrongly feel, Like Abraham call'd to sacrifice his son!"

And he is gone, with ardent steps he prest Across the hills to where the vessel lay, And soon I ween upon the ocean's breast They saw the white sails bearing him away.

And did he go unfriended, poor, alone? Did none of those who, in a favour'd land The shelter of the gospel tree had known, Desire to see its peaceful shade expand?

'Tis not for me to answer questions here— Let ev'ry heart its own responses give, And those to whom their fellow-men are dear, Bestow the bread by which their souls may live!



JOHN RAMSAY.

The author of "Woodnotes of a Wanderer," John Ramsay, was born at Kilmarnock in 1802. With a limited school education, he was early apprenticed in a carpet manufactory in his native place. He afterwards traded for some years as a retail grocer. During his connexion with the carpet factory, he composed some spirited verses, which were inserted in the Edinburgh Literary Journal; and having subsequently suffered misfortune in business, he resolved to repair his losses by publishing a collected edition of his poetical writings, and personally pushing the sale. For the long period of fifteen years, he travelled over the country, vending his volume of "Woodnotes." This creditable enterprise has been rewarded by his appointment to the agency of a benevolent society in Edinburgh.



FAREWELL TO CRAUFURDLAND.

Thou dark stream slow wending thy deep rocky way, By foliage oft hid from the bright eye of day, I 've view'd thee with pleasure, but now must with pain, Farewell! for I never may see you again.

Ye woods, whence fond fancy a spirit would bring, That trimm'd the bright pinions of thought's hallow'd wing, Your beauties will gladden some happier swain; Farewell! for I never may see you again.

I 've roam'd you, unknown to care's life-sapping sigh, When prospects seem'd fair and my young hopes were high; These prospects were false, and those hopes have proved vain; Farewell! for I never may see you again.

Soon distance shall bid my reft heart undergo Those pangs that alone the poor exile can know— Away! like a craven why should I complain? Farewell! for I never may see you again.



JAMES PARKER.

James Parker, author of a duodecimo volume of poetry, entitled "Poems of Past Years," was born in Glasgow, and originally followed the trade of a master baker. He now holds a respectable appointment in the navy. He has contributed verses to the periodicals.



THE MARINER'S SONG.

Oh merrily and gallantly We sweep across the seas, Like the wild ocean birds which ply Their pinions on the breeze; We quail not at the tempest's voice When the billow dashes o'er us, Firm as a rock, we bear the shock, And join its dreadful chorus.

Across the foaming surge we glide With bosoms true and brave, It is our home—our throne of pride— It soon may be our grave; Yet fearlessly we rush to meet The foe that comes before us; The fight begun, we man the gun, And join its thundering chorus.

Our lives may be as fierce and free As the waves o'er which we roam, But let not landsmen think that we Forget our native home; And when the winds shall waft us back To the shores from which they bore us, Amid the throng of mirth and song, We'll join the jovial chorus.



HER LIP IS O' THE ROSE'S HUE.

Her lip is o' the rose's hue, Like links o' goud her hair, Her e'e is o' the azure blue, An' love beams ever there; Her step is like the mountain goat's That climbs the stately Ben, Her voice sweet as the mavis' notes That haunt her native glen.

There is a sweet wee hazel bower Where woodbine blossoms twine, There Jeanie, ae auspicious hour, Consented to be mine; An' there we meet whene'er we hae An idle hour to spen', An' Jeanie ne'er has rued the day She met me in the glen.

Oh bricht, bricht are the evenin' beams, An' sweet the pearly dew, An' lovely is the star that gleams In gloamin's dusky brow; But brichter, sweeter, lovelier far, Aboon a' human ken, Is my sweet pearl—my lovely star— My Jeanie o' the glen.



JOHN HUNTER.

The following compositions are, with permission, transcribed from a small volume of juvenile poems, with the title "Miscellanies, by N. R.," which was printed many years ago, for private circulation only, by Mr John Hunter, now auditor of the Court of Session.



THE BOWER O' CLYDE.

On fair Clydeside thair wonnit ane dame, Ane dame of wondrous courtesie, An' bonny was the kindly flame That stremit frae her saft blue e'e.

Her saft blue e'e, 'mid the hinney dew, That meltit to its tender licht, Was bonnier far than the purest starre That sails thro' the dark blue hevin at nicht.

If ony culd luke and safely see Her dimplit cheek, and her bonny red mou, Nor seek to sip the dew frae her lip, A lifeless lump was he, I trow.

But it wuld haif saften'd the dullest wicht, If ae moment that wicht might see Her bonny breast o' the purest snaw, That heavit wi' luve sae tenderlie.

An' dear, dear was this bonny dame, Dear, dear was she to me, An' my heart was tane, an' my sense was gane, At ae blink o' her bonny blue e'e.

An' sair an' saft I pleadit my luve, Tho' still she hardly wuld seem to hear, An' wuld cauldly blame the words o' flame That I breathit so warmly in her ear.

Yet aye as she turn'd her frae my look, Thair was kindness beamit in her e'e, An' aye as she drew back her lily han', I faund that it tremblit tenderlie.

But the time sune cam, the waesome time, When I maun awa frae my dear, An' oh! that thocht, how aften it brocht The deep-heavit sigh an' the cauld bitter tear!

Then socht I my luve, her cauld heart to muve, Wi' my tears, an' my sighs, an' my prayers, An' I gaed by her side doun the banks o' the Clyde, An' the hours stal awa unawares.

'Twas a still summer nicht, at the fa'ing o' licht, At the gloamin's saft an' schadowie hour, An' we wander'd alane till the daylicht was gane, An' we cam' to a sweet simmer bour.

The mune was up i' the clear blue skye, The mune an' her single wee starre, The winds gaed gently whisperin' bye, Thair was stillness near an' farre.

Alane we sat i' the green summer bour, I tauld her a' that was kind and dear, An' she did na blame the words o' flame That I breathit sae warmly in her ear.

She listenit to the luve-sang warm, Her breast it throbbit and heavit high; She culd hear nae mair, but her gentill arm She lean't upon mine, wi' a tender sigh.

Then warmly I prest wi' my burning lips, Ae kiss on her bonny red mow, An' aften I prest her form to my breast, An' fondly an' warmly I vowit to be true.

An' oh! that hour, that hallowit hour, My fond heart will never forget; Though drear is the dule I haif suffer'd sin syne, That hour gars my heart beat warmly yet.

The parting time cam, an' the parting time past, An' it past nae without the saut tear, An' awa' to anither an' farre awa' land I gaed, an' I left my ain dear.

I gaed, an' though ither and brichter maids Wuld smile wi' fond luve i' their e'e, I but thocht o' the sweet green hour by the Clyde, An' that thocht was enough for me.



MARY.

Oh! Mary, while thy gentle cheek Is on my breast reclining, And while these arms around thy form Are fondly thus entwining; It seems as if no earthly power Our beating hearts could sever, And that in ecstasy of bliss We thus could hang for ever!

Yet ah! too well, too well we know, The fiat fate hath spoken— The spell that bound our souls in one, The world's cold breath hath broken. The hours—the days—whose heavenly light Hath beam'd in beauty o'er us, When Love his sunshine shed around, And strew'd his flowers before us,

Must now be but as golden dreams, Whose loveliness hath perish'd; Wild dreams of hope, in human hearts Too heavenly to be cherish'd. Yet, oh! where'er our lot is cast, The love that once hath bound us— The thought that looks to days long past, Will breathe a halo round us.



IN DISTANT YEARS.

In distant years! when other arms Around thy form are prest, Oh! heave one fond regretful sigh For him thy love once blest! Oh! drop one tear from that dark eye, That was his guiding light, And cast the same deep tender glance, That thrills his soul to-night.

And oh! believe, though dark his fate, And devious his career, The music of that gentle voice Will tremble in his ear; And breathing o'er his troubled soul, Storm-tost and tempest riven, Will still fierce passion's wild control, And win him back to Heaven.



ROBERT CHAMBERS.

Robert Chambers, well known for his connexion with the publishing house of W. & R. Chambers, Edinburgh, and as the author of several meritorious works of a national character, was born in 1802 at Peebles, where his parents occupied a respectable position. Robert was the second of a family of six children, his elder brother William being about two years his senior. In consequence of misfortunes in business, James Chambers, the father of these youths, found it desirable to remove to Edinburgh with his family in 1813. While still in childhood Robert manifested a remarkable aptitude for learning, as well as a taste for music and poetry—a taste inherited from his father, who was a good performer on several instruments, and possessed a taste for both literature and science. Before completing his twelfth year, he had passed through a complete classical course at the grammar school of his native burgh, had perused no small portion of the books within his reach including those of a circulating library, and mastered much of the general information contained in a copy of the "Encyclopaedia Britannica," of which his father possessed a copy of the then latest edition. Left very much to their own resources, William became an apprentice to a bookseller in 1814; and Robert, at the age of sixteen, threw himself on the world, as a dealer in old books, a step in accordance with his natural tastes, and which proved fortunate. How the two lads struggled on obscurely, but always improving their circumstances; how they were cheered onward by the counsels of their widowed mother; how they finally went into partnership for the purpose of prosecuting literary undertakings—need not here be detailed. Robert, in 1822-3, began to write the "Traditions of Edinburgh," which first brought him prominently into notice. This amusing work was followed by the "Popular Rhymes of Scotland." Next came his "Picture of Scotland," an interesting topographical work in two volumes; "Histories of the Scottish Rebellions;" three volumes of "Scottish Ballads and Songs;" and "Biography of Distinguished Scotsmen," in four volumes. Besides various popular works, he produced, for private circulation, a volume of poetical pieces, distinguished for their fine taste and feeling. William having started Chambers's Edinburgh Journal in February 1832, Robert became an efficient coadjutor, and mainly helped to give the work its extensive popularity. In the more early volumes, in particular, there appear many admirable essays, humorous and pathetic, from his pen. Besides these professional avocations, Mr Robert Chambers takes part in the proceedings of the scientific and other learned bodies in Edinburgh. Among his latest detached works is a volume, of a geological character, on the "Ancient Sea Margins of Scotland;" also, "Tracings of Iceland," the result of a visit to that interesting island in the summer of 1855. Living respected in Edinburgh, in the bosom of his family, and essentially a self-made man, Mr Robert Chambers is peculiarly distinguished for his kindly disposition and unobtrusive manners—for his enlightened love of country, and diligence in professional labours, uniting, in a singularly happy manner, the man of refined literary taste with the man of business and the useful citizen.



YOUNG RANDAL.

TUNE—'There grows a bonnie brier bush.'

Young Randal was a bonnie lad when he gaed awa', Young Randal was a bonnie lad when he gaed awa', 'Twas in the sixteen hundred year o' grace and thritty-twa, That Randal, the laird's youngest son, gaed awa'.

It was to seek his fortune in the High Germanie, To fecht the foreign loons in the High Germanie, That he left his father's tower o' sweet Willanslee, And monie mae friends in the North Countrie.

He left his mother in her bower, his father in the ha', His brother at the outer yett, but and his sisters twa', And his bonnie cousin Jean, that look'd owre the castle wa', And, mair than a' the lave, loot the tears down fa'.

"Oh, whan will ye be back," sae kindly did she speir, "Oh, whan will ye be back, my hinny and my dear?" "Whenever I can win eneuch o' Spanish gear, To dress ye out in pearlins and silks, my dear."

Oh, Randal's hair was coal-black when he gaed awa'— Oh, Randal's cheeks were roses red when he gaed awa', And in his bonnie e'e, a spark glintit high, Like the merrie, merrie look in the morning sky.

Oh, Randal was an altert man whan he came hame— A sair altert man was he when he came hame; Wi' a ribbon at his breast, and a Sir at his name— And gray, gray cheeks did Randal come hame.

He lichtit at the outer yett, and rispit with the ring, And down came a ladye to see him come in, And after the ladye came bairns feifteen: "Can this muckle wife be my true love Jean?"

"Whatna stoure carl is this," quo' the dame, "Sae gruff and sae grand, and sae feckless and sae lame?" "Oh, tell me, fair madam, are ye bonnie Jeanie Graham?" "In troth," quo' the ladye, "sweet sir, the very same."

He turned him about wi' a waefu' e'e, And a heart as sair as sair could be; He lap on his horse, and awa' did wildly flee, And never mair came back to sweet Willanslee.

Oh, dule on the poortith o' this countrie, And dule on the wars o' the High Germanie, And dule on the love that forgetfu' can be, For they 've wreck'd the bravest heart in this hale countrie.



THE LADYE THAT I LOVE.

Were I a doughty cavalier On fire for high-born dame, With sword and lance I would not fear To win a warrior's fame. But since no more stern deeds of blood The gentle fair may move, I 'll woo in softer better mood The ladye that I love.

For helmet bright with steel and gold, And plumes that flout the sky, I 'll wear a soul of hardier mould, And thoughts that sweep as high. For scarf athwart my corslet cast, With her fair name y-wove; I 'll have her pictured in my breast, The ladye that I love.

No crested steed through battle throng Shall bear me bravely on, But pride shall make my spirit strong, Where honours may be won. Amidst the great of mind and heart, My prowess I will prove, And thus I 'll win, by gentler art, The ladye that I love.



THOU GENTLE AND KIND ONE.

Thou gentle and kind one, Who com'st o'er my dreams, Like the gales of the west, Or the music of streams; Oh, softest and dearest, Can that time e'er be, When I could be forgetful Or scornful of thee?

No! my soul might be dark, Like a landscape in shade, And for thee not the half Of its love be display'd, But one ray of thy kindness Would banish my pain, And soon kiss every feature To brightness again.

And if, in contending With men and the world, My eye might be fierce, Or my brow might be curl'd; That brow on thy bosom All smooth'd would recline, And that eye melt in kindness When turn'd upon thine.

If faithful in sorrow, More faithful in joy— Thou shouldst find that no change Could affection destroy; All profit, all pleasure, As nothing would be, And each triumph despised Unpartaken by thee.



LAMENT FOR THE OLD HIGHLAND WARRIORS.

Oh, where are the pretty men of yore? Oh, where are the brave men gone? Oh, where are the heroes of the north? Each under his own gray stone. Oh, where now the broad bright claymore? Oh, where are the trews and plaid? Oh, where now the merry Highland heart? In silence for ever laid. Och on a rie, och on a rie, Och on a rie, all are gone; Och on a rie, the heroes of yore, Each under his own gray stone.

The chiefs that were foremost of old, Macdonald and brave Lochiel, The Gordon, the Murray, and the Graham, With their clansmen true as steel; Who follow'd and fought with Montrose, Glencairn, and bold Dundee; Who to Charlie gave their swords and their all, And would aye rather fa' than flee. Och on a rie, &c.

The hills that our brave fathers trod Are now to the stranger a store; The voice of the pipe and the bard Shall awaken never more. Such things it is sad to think on— They come like the mist by day— And I wish I had less in this world to leave, And be with them that are away. Och on a rie, &c.



THOMAS AIRD.

Thomas Aird, one of the most distinguished of the living Scottish poets, was born in the parish of Bowden, Roxburghshire, in 1802. He received the rudiments of his education at Bowden and Melrose parish schools; and went through a course of literary and philosophical study at the University of Edinburgh. In 1827 he published a little treatise, entitled "Religious Characteristics." After a residence of some years in Edinburgh, in the course of which he contributed occasionally to Blackwood's Magazine, and other periodicals, he was, in 1835, on the recommendation of his steadfast friend Professor Wilson, appointed editor of the Dumfries Herald, a conservative journal newly started in Dumfries. The paper has prospered under his management, and he is editor still. In 1845 he published "The Old Bachelor in the Old Scottish Village," a collection of tales and sketches of Scottish scenery, character, and life. In 1848 he collected and published his poems. In 1852 he wrote a memoir of his friend, David Macbeth Moir (the well-known "Delta" of Blackwood's Magazine), and prefixed it to an edition of Moir's poems, which he edited for behoof of the poet's family, under the generous instructions of the Messrs Blackwood. In 1856 a new edition of Mr Aird's poems appeared, with many fresh pieces, and the old carefully revised; Messrs Blackwood being the publishers.



THE SWALLOW.

The little comer 's coming, the comer o'er the sea, The comer of the summer, all the sunny days to be; How pleasant, through the pleasant sleep, thy early twitter heard— Oh, swallow by the lattice! glad days be thy reward!

Thine be sweet morning, with the bee that 's out for honey-dew, And glowing be the noontide, for the grasshopper and you; And mellow shine, o'er days' decline, the sun to light thee home— What can molest thy airy nest? Sleep till the morrow come.

The river blue, that lapses through the valley, hears thee sing, And murmurs much beneath the touch of thy light-dipping wing; The thunder-cloud, over us bow'd, in deeper gloom is seen, When quick relieved it glances to thy bosom's silvery sheen.

The silent power that brings thee back, with leading-strings of love, To haunts where first the summer sun fell on thee from above, Shall bind thee more to come aye to the music of our leaves, For here thy young, where thou hast sprung, shall glad thee in our eaves.



GENIUS.

Eye of the brain and heart, O Genius, inner sight, Wonders from thee familiar start, In thy decisive light. Wide and deep the eye must go, The process of our world to know. Old mountains grated to the sea, Sow the young seed of isles to be. States dissolve, that Nature's plan May bear the broadening type of man. Passes ne'er the Past away; Child of the ages springs to-day. Life, death, and life! but circling change, Still working to a higher range! Make thee all science, Genius, clear Our world; all Muses, grace and cheer. And may the ideal thou hast shewn, With joy peculiar be thine own; For thee the starry belts of time, The inner laws, the heavenly chime; Thine storm and rack—the forests crack, The sea gives up her secrets hoary; And Beauty thine, on loom divine, Weaving the rainbow's woof of glory.

Power of the civic heart, More than a power to know, Genius, incarnated in Art, By thee the nations grow. Lawgiver thine, and priest, and sage, Lit up the Oriental age. Persuasive groves, and musical, Of love the illumined mountains all. Eagles and rods, and axes clear, Forum and amphitheatre; These in thy plastic forming hand, Forth leapt to life the classic Land. Old and new, the worlds of light, Who bridged the gulf of Middle Night? See the purple passage rise, Many arch'd of centuries; Genius built it long and vast, And o'er it social knowledge pass'd. Far in the glad transmitted flame, Shinar, knit to Britain, came; Their state by thee our fathers free, O Genius, founded deep and wide, Majestic towers the fabric ours, And awes the world from side to side.

Mart of the ties of blood, Mart of the souls of men! O Christ! to see thy Brotherhood Bought to be sold again, Front of hell, to trade therein. Genius face the giant sin; Shafts of thought, truth-headed clear, Temper'd all in Pity's tear, Every point and every tip, In the blood of Jesus dip; Pierce till the monster reel and cry, Pierce him till he fall and die. Yet cease not, rest not, onward quell, Power divine and terrible! See where yon bastion'd Midnight stands, On half the sunken central lands; Shoot! let thy arrow heads of flame Sing as they pierce the blot of shame, Till all the dark economies Become the light of blessed skies. For this, above in wondering love, To Genius shall it first be given, To trace the lines of past designs, All confluent to the finish'd Heaven.