ROBERT WHITE.

Robert White, an indefatigable antiquary, and pleasing writer of lyric poetry, is a native of Roxburghshire. His youth and early manhood were spent at Otterburn, in Redesdale, where his father rented a farm. Possessed of an ardent love of reading, he early became familiar with the English poets, and himself tried metrical composition. While still a young man, he ranked among the poetical contributors to the Newcastle Magazine. In 1825 he accepted a situation as clerk to a respectable tradesman in Newcastle, which he retained upwards of twenty years. Latterly he has occupied a post of respectable emolument, and with sufficient leisure for the improvement of his literary tastes.

Besides contributing both in prose and verse to the local journals, and some of the periodicals, Mr White is the author of several publications. In 1829 appeared from his pen "The Tynemouth Nun," an elegantly versified tale; in 1853, "The Wind," a poem; and in 1856, "England," a poem. He has contributed songs to "Whistle Binkie," and "The Book of Scottish Song." At present he has in the press a "History of the Battle of Otterburn," prepared from original sources of information.



MY NATIVE LAND.

Fair Scotland! dear as life to me Are thy majestic hills; And sweet as purest melody The music of thy rills. The wildest cairn, the darkest dell, Within thy rocky strand, Possess o'er me a living spell— Thou art my native land.

Loved country, when I muse upon Thy dauntless men of old, Whose swords in battle foremost shone— Thy Wallace brave and bold; And Bruce who, for our liberty, Did England's sway withstand; I glory I was born in thee, Mine own ennobled land!

Nor less thy martyrs I revere, Who spent their latest breath To seal the cause they held so dear, And conquer'd even in death. Their graves evince, o'er hill and plain, No bigot's stern command Shall mould the faith thy sons maintain, My dear devoted land.

And thou hast ties around my heart, Attraction deeper still— The gifted poet's sacred art, The minstrel's matchless skill. Yea; every scene that Burns and Scott Have touch'd with magic hand Is in my sight a hallow'd spot, Mine own distinguish'd land!

Oh! when I wander'd far from thee, I saw thee in my dreams; I mark'd thy forests waving free, I heard thy rushing streams. Thy mighty dead in life came forth, I knew the honour'd band; We spoke of thee—thy fame—thy worth— My high exalted land!

Now if the lonely home be mine In which my fathers dwelt, And I can worship at the shrine Where they in fervour knelt; No glare of wealth, or honour high, Shall lure me from thy strand; Oh, I would yield my parting sigh In thee, my native land!



A SHEPHERD'S LIFE.

Eliza fair, the mirth of May Resounds from glen and tree; Yet thy mild voice, I need not say, Is dearer far to me. And while I thus a garland cull, To grace that brow of thine, My cup of pure delight is full— A shepherd's life be mine!

Believe me, maid, the means of wealth, Howe'er profuse they be, Produce not pleasure that in health Is shared by you and me! 'Tis when elate with thoughts of joy We find a heart like thine, That objects grateful glad the eye— A shepherd's life be mine!

O mark, Eliza, how the flowers Around us sweetly spring; And list how in these woodland bowers The birds with rapture sing; Behold that vale whose streamlet clear Flows on in waving line; Can Paradise more bright appear? A shepherd's life be mine!

Now, dearest, not the morning bright, That dawns o'er hill and lea, Nor eve, with all its golden light, Can charm me without thee. To feel the magic of thy smile— To catch that glance of thine— To talk to thee of love the while, A shepherd's life be mine!



HER I LOVE BEST.

Thou morn full of beauty That chases the night, And wakens all Nature With gladness and light, When warbles the linnet Aloof from its nest, O scatter thy fragrance Round her I love best!

Ye hills, dark and lofty, That near her ascend, If she in her pastime Across thee shall wend, Let every lone pathway In wild flowers be drest, To welcome the footsteps Of her I love best!

Thou sun, proudly sailing O'er depths of the sky, Dispensing beneath thee Profusion and joy, Until in thy splendour Thou sink'st to the west, Oh, gaze not too boldly On her I love best!

Ye wild roving breezes, I charge you, forbear To wantonly tangle The braids of her hair; Breathe not o'er her rudely, Nor sigh on her breast, Nor kiss you the sweet lip Of her I love best!

Thou evening, that gently Steals after the day, To robe with thy shadow The landscape in gray, O fan with soft pinion My dearest to rest! And calm be the slumber Of her I love best!

Ye angels of goodness, That shield us from ill, The purest of pleasures Awarding us still, As near her you hover, Oh, hear my request! Pour blessings unnumber'd On her I love best!



THE KNIGHT'S RETURN.

Fair Ellen, here again I stand— All dangers now are o'er; No sigh to reach my native land Shall rend my bosom more. Ah! oft, beyond the heaving main, I mourn'd at Fate's decree; I wish'd but to be back again To Scotland and to thee.

O Ellen, how I prized thy love In foreign lands afar! Upon my helm I bore thy glove Through thickest ranks of war: And as a pledge, in battle-field, Recall'd thy charms to me; I breath'd a prayer behind my shield For Scotland and for thee.

I scarce can tell how eagerly My eyes were hither cast, When, faintly rising o'er the sea, These hills appear'd at last. My very breast, as on the shore I bounded light and free, Declared by throbs the love I bore To Scotland and to thee.

Oh, long, long has the doom been mine In other climes to roam; Yet have I seen no form like thine, No sweeter spot than home; Nor ask'd I e'er another heart To feel alone for me: O Ellen, never more I'll part From Scotland and from thee!



THE BONNIE REDESDALE LASSIE.

The breath o' spring is gratefu', As mild it sweeps alang, Awakening bud an' blossom The broomy braes amang, And wafting notes o' gladness Frae ilka bower and tree; Yet the bonnie Redesdale lassie Is sweeter still to me.

How bright is summer's beauty! When, smilin' far an' near, The wildest spots o' nature Their gayest livery wear; And yellow cups an' daisies Are spread on ilka lea; But the bonnie Redesdale lassie Mair charming is to me.

Oh! sweet is mellow autumn! When, wide oure a' the plain, Slow waves in rustlin' motion The heavy-headed grain; Or in the sunshine glancin', And rowin' like the sea; Yet the bonnie Redesdale lassie Is dearer far to me!

As heaven itsel', her bosom Is free o' fraud or guile; What hope o' future pleasure Is centred in her smile! I wadna lose for kingdoms The love-glance o' her e'e; Oh! the bonnie Redesdale lassie Is life and a' to me!



THE MOUNTAINEER'S DEATH.

I pray for you, of your courtesy, before we further move, Let me look back and see the place that I so dearly love. I am not old in years, yet still, where'er I chanced to roam, The strongest impulse of my heart was ever link'd with home: There saw I first the light of heaven—there, by a mother's knee, In time of infancy and youth, her love supported me: All that I prize on earth is now my aching sight before, And glen and brae, and moorland gray, I'll witness never more.

Beneath yon trees, that o'er the cot their deep'ning shadows fling, My father first reveal'd to me the exile of our king; Upon yon seat beside the door he gave to me his sword, With charge to draw it only for our just and rightful lord. And I remember when I went, unfriended and alone, Amidst a world I never loved—ay! yonder is the stone At which my mother, bending low, for me did heaven implore— Stone, seat and tree are dear to me—I'll see them never more!

Yon hawthorn bower beside the burn I never shall forget; Ah! there my dear departed maid and I in rapture met: What tender aspirations we breathed for other's weal! How glow'd our hearts with sympathy which none but lovers feel! And when above our hapless Prince the milk-white flag was flung, While hamlet, mountain, rock, and glen with martial music rung, We parted there; from her embrace myself I wildly tore; Our hopes were vain—I came again, but found her never more.

Oh! thank you for your gentleness—now stay one minute still; There is a lone and quiet spot on yonder rising hill; I mark it, and the sight revives emotions strong and deep— There, lowly laid, my parents in the dust together sleep. And must I in a land afar from home and kindred lie? Forbid it, heaven! and hear my prayer—'tis better now to die! My limbs grow faint—I fain would rest—my eyes are darkening o'er; Slow flags my breath; now, this is death—adieu, for evermore!



WILLIAM CAMERON.

William Cameron was born on the 3d December 1801, in the parish of Dunipace, and county of Stirling. His father was employed successively in woollen factories at Dumfries, Dalmellington, and Dunipace. He subsequently became proprietor of woollen manufactories at Slamannan, Stirlingshire, and at Blackburn and Torphichen, in the county of Linlithgow. While receiving an education with a view to the ministry, the death of his father in 1819 was attended with an alteration in his prospects, and he was induced to accept the appointment of schoolmaster at the village of Armadale, parish of Bathgate. In 1836 he resigned this situation, and removed to Glasgow, where he has since prosperously engaged in mercantile concerns. Of the various lyrics which have proceeded from his pen, "Jessie o' the Dell" is an especial favourite. The greater number of his songs, arranged with music, appear in the "Lyric Gems of Scotland," a respectable collection of minstrelsy published in Glasgow.



SWEET JESSIE O' THE DELL.

O bright the beaming queen o' night Shines in yon flow'ry vale, And softly sheds her silver light O'er mountain, path, and dale. Short is the way, when light 's the heart That 's bound in love's soft spell; Sae I 'll awa' to Armadale, To Jessie o' the Dell, To Jessie o' the Dell, Sweet Jessie o' the Dell; The bonnie lass o' Armadale, Sweet Jessie o' the Dell.

We 've pu'd the primrose on the braes Beside my Jessie's cot, We 've gather'd nuts, we 've gather'd slaes, In that sweet rural spot. The wee short hours danced merrily, Like lambkins on the fell; As if they join'd in joy wi' me And Jessie o' the Dell.

There's nane to me wi' her can vie, I 'll love her till I dee; For she's sae sweet and bonnie aye, And kind as kind can be. This night in mutual kind embrace, Oh, wha our joys may tell; Then I 'll awa' to Armadale, To Jessie o' the Dell.



MEET ME ON THE GOWAN LEA.

Meet me on the gowan lea, Bonnie Mary, sweetest Mary; Meet me on the gowan lea, My ain, my artless Mary.

Before the sun sink in the west, And nature a' hae gane to rest, There to my fond, my faithful breast, Oh, let me clasp my Mary. Meet me on the gowan lea, Bonnie Mary, sweetest Mary; Meet me on the gowan lea, My ain, my artless Mary.

The gladsome lark o'er moor and fell, The lintie in the bosky dell, Nae blyther than your bonnie sel', My ain, my artless Mary. Meet me, &c.

We 'll join our love notes to the breeze That sighs in whispers through the trees, And a' that twa fond hearts can please Will be our sang, dear Mary. Meet me, &c.

There ye shall sing the sun to rest, While to my faithfu' bosom prest; Then wha sae happy, wha sae blest, As me and my dear Mary. Meet me, &c.



MORAG'S FAIRY GLEN.

Ye ken whar yon wee burnie, love, Rins roarin' to the sea, And tumbles o'er it's rocky bed, Like spirit wild and free. The mellow mavis tunes his lay, The blackbird swells his note, And little robin sweetly sings Above the woody grot. There meet me, love, by a' unseen, Beside yon mossy den, Oh, meet me, love, at dewy eve, In Morag's fairy glen; Oh, meet me, love, at dewy eve, In Morag's fairy glen.

Come when the sun, in robes of gold, Sinks o'er yon hills to rest, An' fragrance floating in the breeze Comes frae the dewy west. And I will pu' a garland gay, To deck thy brow sae fair; For many a woodbine cover'd glade An' sweet wild flower is there.

There 's music in the wild cascade, There 's love amang the trees, There 's beauty in ilk bank and brae, An' balm upon the breeze; There 's a' of nature and of art, That maistly weel could be; An' oh, my love, when thou art there, There 's bliss in store for me.



OH! DINNA CROSS THE BURN, WILLIE.

Oh! dinna cross the burn, Willie, Dinna cross the burn, For big 's the spate, and loud it roars; Oh, dinna cross the burn. Your folks a' ken you 're here the nicht, And sair they wad you blame; Sae bide wi' me till mornin' licht— Indeed, you 're no gaun hame. The thunder-storm howls in the glen, The burn is rising fast; Bide only twa-three hours, and then The storm 'll a' be past. Oh, dinna cross, &c.

Then bide, dear Willie, here the nicht, Oh, bide till mornin' here; My faither, he 'll see a' things richt, And ye 'll hae nocht to fear. See, dark 's the lift, no moon is there, The rains in torrents pour; And see the lightning's dreadful glare, Hear how the thunders roar! Oh, dinna cross, &c.

Away he rode, no kind words could His mad resolve o'erturn; He plunged into the foaming flood, But never cross'd the burn! And now though ten long years have pass'd Since that wild storm blew by— Oh! still the maniac hears the blast, And still her crazy cry, Oh, dinna cross, &c.



ALEXANDER TAIT.

Alexander Tait is a native of Peebles. Abandoning in 1829 the occupation of a cotton-weaver, he has since been engaged in the work of tuition. He has taught successively in the parishes of Lasswade, Tweedsmuir, Meggat, Pennycuick, Yarrow, and Peebles. To the public journals, both in prose and verse, he has been an extensive contributor.



E'ENING'S DEWY HOUR.

AIR—'Roslin Castle.'

When rosy day, far in the west, has vanish'd frae the scene, And gloamin' spreads her mantle gray owre lake and mountain green; When yet the darklin' shades o' mirk but haflens seem to lower, How dear to love and beauty is the e'ening's dewy hour!

When down the burnie's wimpling course, amid the hazel shade, The robin chants his vesper sang, the cushat seeks the glade; When bats their drowsy vigils wheel round eldrich tree and tower, Be 't mine to meet the lass I lo'e at e'ening's dewy hour!

When owre the flower-bespangled sward the flocks have ceased to stray, And maukin steals across the lawn beneath the twilight gray; Then, oh! how dear, frae men apart, in glen or woodland bower, To meet the lass we dearly lo'e at e'ening's dewy hour!

The ruddy morn has charms enow, when, from the glowin' sky, The sun on rival beauties smiles wi' gladness in his eye; But, oh! the softer shaded scene has magic in its power, Which cheers the youthful lover's heart at e'ening's dewy hour!



CHARLES FLEMING.

A handloom weaver in Paisley, of which place he is a native, Charles Fleming has, from early youth, devoted his leisure hours to the pursuits of elegant literature. He has long been a contributor to the public journals.



WATTY M'NEIL.

When others are boasting 'bout fetes and parades, Whar silken hose shine, and glitter cockades, In the low-thatched cot mair pleasure I feel To discourse wi' the aul'-farint Watty M'Neil.

The gentles may hoot, and slip by his door; His mien it is simple, his haudin' is poor: Aft fashion encircles a heart no sae leal— Far, far will ye ride for a Watty M'Neil.

His welcome is touching, yet nought o' the faun— A warmth is express'd in the shake o' his han'; His cog and his bed, or ought in his biel, The lonely will share frae kind Watty M'Neil.

He kens a' 'bout Scotland, its friends and its foes, How Leslie did triumph o'er gallant Montrose; And the Covenant's banner ower Philiphaugh's fiel' Waved glorious—'twas noble, says Watty M'Neil.

Then gang and see Watty ere laid in the mools, He 's a help to the wise folk, a lesson to fools; Contentment and innocence mingle sae weel Mid the braw lyart haffits o' Watty M'Neil.



WILLIAM FERGUSON.

The author of several esteemed and popular songs, William Ferguson, follows the avocation of a master plumber in Nicolson Street, Edinburgh. Born within the shadow of the Pentlands, near the scene of Ramsay's "Gentle Shepherd," he has written verses from his youth. He has contributed copiously to "Whistle Binkie," and "The Book of Scottish Song."



I 'LL TEND THY BOWER, MY BONNIE MAY.

I 'll tend thy bower, my bonnie May, In spring time o' the year; When saft'ning winds begin to woo The primrose to appear; When daffodils begin to dance, And streams again flow free; And little birds are heard to pipe, On the sprouting forest tree.

I 'll tend thy bower, my bonnie May, When summer days are lang, When nature's heart is big wi' joy, Her voice laden wi' sang; When shepherds pipe on sunny braes, And flocks roam at their will, And auld and young, in cot an' ha', O' pleasure drink their fill.

I 'll tend thy bower, my bonnie May, When autumn's yellow fields, That wave like seas o' gowd, before The glancin' sickle yields; When ilka bough is bent wi' fruit— A glorious sight to see!— And showers o' leaves, red, rustling, sweep Out owre the withering lea.

I 'll tend thy bower, my bonnie May, When, through the naked trees, Cauld, shivering on the bare hill-side, Sweeps wild the frosty breeze; When tempests roar, and billows rise, Till nature quakes wi' fear, And on the land, and on the sea, Wild winter rules the year.



WOOING SONG.

The spring comes back to woo the earth, Wi' a' a lover's speed; The wee birds woo their lovin' mates, Around our very head! But I 've nae skill in lover-craft— For till I met wi' you, I never sought a maiden's love, I never tried to woo.

I 've gazed on many a comely face, And thought it sweet an' fair; But wi' the face the charm would flee, And never move me mair. But miles away, your bonnie face Is ever in my view, Wi' a' its charms, half wilin' me, Half daurin' me to woo.

At hame, a-field, you 're a' my theme; I doat my time away; I dream o'er a' your charms by night, And worship them by day. But when they glad my langin' e'en, As they are gladden'd now, My courage flees like frighted bird; I daurna mint to woo.

My head thus lying on your lap, Your hand aneath my cheek; Love stounds my bosom through and through, But yet I canna speak. My coward heart wi' happiness, Wi' bliss is brimin' fu'; But, oh! its fu'ness mars my tongue, I haena power to woo.

I prize your smile, as husbandman The summer's opening bloom, And could you frown, I dread it mair, Than he the autumn's gloom. My life hangs on that sweet, sweet lip, On that calm, sunny brow; And, oh! my dead hangs on them baith, Unless you let me woo.

Oh! lift me to your bosom, then, Lay your warm cheek to mine; And let me round that lovesome waist My arms enraptured twine; That I may breathe my very soul, In ae lang lovin' vow; And a' the while in whispers low, You 'll learn me, love, to woo!



I 'M WANDERING WIDE.

I 'm wand'ring wide this wintry night, But yet my heart 's at hame, Fu' cozie by my ain fire-cheek, Beside my winsome dame. The weary winds howl lang an' loud; But 'mid their howling drear, Words sweeter far than honey blabs Fa' saftly on my ear.

I 'm wand'ring wide this wintry night, I 'm wand'ring wide an' far; But love, to guide me back again, Lights up a kindly star. The lift glooms black aboon my head, Nae friendly blink I see; But let it gloom—twa bonnie e'en Glance bright to gladden me.

I 'm wand'ring wide this wintry night, I 'm wand'ring wide and late, And ridgy wreaths afore me rise, As if to bar my gate; Around me swirls the sleety drift, The frost bites dour an' keen; But breathings warm, frae lovin' lips, Come ilka gust atween.

I 'm wand'ring wide this wintry night, I 'm wand'ring wide an' wild, Alang a steep and eerie track, Where hills on hills are piled; The torrent roars in wrath below, The tempest roars aboon; But fancy broods on brighter scenes, And soughs a cheerin' tune.

I 'm wand'ring wide this wintry night, I 'm wand'ring wide my lane, And mony a langsome, lanesome mile, I 'll measure e'er it 's gane; But lanesome roads or langsome miles, Can never daunton me, When I think on the welcome warm That waits me, love, frae thee.



THOMAS DICK.

A native of Paisley, Thomas Dick was originally engaged as a weaver in that town. He afterwards became a bookseller, and has since been employed in teaching and other avocations. He is the author of a number of songs which appear in "Whistle Binkie," and "The Book of Scottish Song;" and also of several tales which have been published separately, and in various periodicals.



HOW EARLY I WOO'D THEE.

AIR—'Neil Gow's Lament for his Brother.'

How early I woo'd thee, how dearly I lo'ed thee; How sweet was thy voice, how enchanting thy smile; The joy 'twas to see thee, the bliss to be wi' thee, I mind, but to feel now their power to beguile. I gazed on thy beauty, and a' things about thee, Seem'd too fair for earth, as I bent at thy shrine; But fortune and fashion, mair powerfu' than passion, Could alter the bosom that seem'd sae divine!

Anither may praise thee, may fondle and fraize thee; And win thee wi' words, when his heart's far awa'; But, oh, when sincerest, when warmest, and dearest, His vows—will my truth be forgot by thee a'? 'Midst pleasure and splendour thy fancy may wander, But moments o' solitude ilk ane maun dree; Then feeling will find thee, and mem'ry remind thee, O' him wha through life gaes heart-broken for thee.



HUGH MILLER.

The celebrated geologist, and editor of the Witness newspaper, Hugh Miller, was born at Cromarty on the 10th October 1802. In his fifth year he had the misfortune to lose his father, who, being the captain of a small trading vessel, perished in a storm at sea. His widowed mother was aided by two industrious unmarried brothers in providing for her family, consisting of two daughters, and the subject of this Memoir. With a rudimentary training in a private school, taught by a female, he became a pupil in the grammar school. Perceiving his strong aptitude for learning, and vigorous native talent, his maternal uncles strongly urged him to study for one of the liberal professions; but, diffident of success in more ambitious walks, he resolved to follow the steps of his progenitors in a life of manual labour. In his sixteenth year he apprenticed himself to a stone-mason. The profession thus chosen proved the pathway to his future eminence; for it was while engaged as an operative stone-hewer in the old red sandstone quarries of Cromarty, that he achieved those discoveries in that formation which fixed a new epoch in geological science. Poetical composition in evening hours relieved the toils of labour, and varied the routine of geological inquiry. In the prosecution of an ornamental branch of his profession—that of cutting and lettering grave-stones—he in 1828 proceeded to Inverness. Obtaining the friendship of Mr Robert Carruthers, the ingenious editor of the Inverness Courier, the columns of that journal were adorned by his poetical contributions. In 1829 these were issued from the Courier office, in a duodecimo volume, with the title, "Poems Written in the Leisure Hours of a Journeyman Mason." By the press the work was received with general favour; and the author, in evidence that his powers as a prose-writer were not inferior to his efforts as a poet, soon re-appeared in the columns of the Courier, as the contributor of various letters on the Northern Fisheries. These letters proved so attractive that their republication in the form of a pamphlet was forthwith demanded.

The merits of the Cromarty stone-mason began to attract some general attention. Sir Thomas Dick Lauder, who had an occasional residence in Morayshire, afforded him patronage; and the venerable Principal Baird of Edinburgh, to whom he was introduced, recommended him to quit the mallet, and seek literary employment in the capital. Such gratifying encouragement and friendly counsel, though not immediately acted upon, were not without advantage in stimulating his enterprise. Before relinquishing, however, a craft at which he could at least earn a sufficiency for his immediate wants, he resolved to test his capabilities as a writer by a further literary attempt.

Cromarty and its vicinity abounded in legends of curious interest, respecting the times of religious persecutions, and of the rebellions in the cause of the Stuarts, and these Miller had carefully stored up from the recitations of the aged. The pen of Scott had imparted a deep interest to the traditions of other localities; and it seemed not unlikely that the legends of Cromarty, well told, would attract some share of attention. Success attended this further adventure, proportioned to its unquestionable merit—the "Scenes and Legends of the North of Scotland," which emanated from the publishing house of the Messrs Black of Edinburgh, confirmed and widely extended the reputation of the author.

From handling the workman's tools, a sudden transition to the constant use of the pen of the litterateur is, under the most favourable circumstances, not to be desired. It was the lot of Hugh Miller to engage in an intermediate employment, and to acquire, in a manner peculiarly appropriate, that knowledge of business, and acquaintance with the transactions of life, which are so necessary to those who, through the medium of the press, seek to direct public opinion. Shortly after the publication of his "Scenes and Legends," a branch of the Commercial Bank was opened at Cromarty, and the accountantship was offered to him by the agent. Entering on the duties, after a short preliminary training in the Bank's offices at Edinburgh and Linlithgow, he subsequently added to his domestic comfort by uniting himself in marriage with Miss Lydia Fraser, a young lady of literary tastes, to whom he had for some time borne an attachment. His official emoluments amounted to nearly a hundred pounds a-year; these were considerably augmented by his contributing legendary tales for The Tales of the Border, and writing occasional articles to Chambers' Edinburgh Journal. The veto controversy was now extensively agitating the Established Church, and, having long supported the popular view, he at length resolved to come forward more conspicuously as the advocate of what he strongly regarded as the rights of the people. He embodied his sentiments in the shape of a letter to Lord Brougham, and, having transmitted his MS. to Mr Robert Paul, the manager of the Commercial Bank, it was by that gentleman submitted to Dr Candlish. Perceiving the consummate ability of the writer, that able divine not only urged the publication of his letter, but recommended his immediate nomination as the editor of the Witness newspaper, which had just been projected by some of the Edinburgh clergy. The offer of the editorship was accordingly made, and, being accepted, the first number of the newspaper was, early in 1840, issued under his superintendence.

As a controversial writer, and the able exponent of his peculiar views of ecclesiastical polity, Hugh Miller at once attained a first rank among contemporary editors. Many persons who were unconcerned about the Scottish Church question, or by whom his sentiments on that subject were disapproved, could not withhold an expressed admiration of the singular power with which his views were supported, and of the classic style in which they were conveyed. For some years prior to undertaking the editorship, he had devoted much of his spare time to the preparation of a geological work; and he now, in the columns of his newspaper, in a series of chapters, presented to the public that valuable contribution to geological science, since so well known as his work on "The Old Red Sandstone." To the scientific world, by opening up the fossil treasures of a formation hitherto understood to be peculiarly destitute of organic remains, this publication claimed an especial interest, which was enhanced by the elegance of the diction. His subsequent publications fully sustained his fame. A work on the physical and social aspects of the sister kingdom, entitled "First Impressions of England and its People," was followed by "The Footprints of the Creator," the latter being a powerful reply to the work entitled "Vestiges of the Natural History of Creation." In 1854 he published a most interesting narrative of his early struggles and experiences, with the title, "My Schools and Schoolmasters." "The Testimony of the Rocks," a work on which he bestowed intense labour, and which may be regarded as his masterpiece, was published in March 1857, about three months subsequent to his demise; but all the sheets had undergone his final revision.

For some years his health had been declining; in early manhood he suffered severely from a pulmonary affection, known as the "mason's disease," and he never thoroughly recovered. A singular apprehension of personal danger, inconsistent with the general manliness of his character, induced him for many years never to go abroad without fire-arms. He studied with pertinacious constancy, seldom enjoying the salutary relaxations of society. He complained latterly that his sleep was distracted by unpleasant dreams, while he was otherwise a prey to painful delusions. The eye of affection discovered that the system had been overtaxed; but eminent medical counsel deemed that cessation from literary toil would produce an effectual cure. The case was much more serious; a noble intellect was on the very brink of ruin. On the night of the 24th December 1856, he retired to rest sooner than was his usual, as the physician had prescribed. With redoubled vehemence he had experienced the distractions of disordered reason; he rose in a frenzy from his bed, and, having written a short affectionate letter to his wife, pointed his revolver pistol to his breast. He fired in the region of the heart, and his death must have been instantaneous. The melancholy event took place in his residence of Shrub Mount, Portobello, and his remains now rest in the Grange Cemetery, Edinburgh. As a geologist it is not our province to pronounce his eulogy; he was one of the most elegant and powerful prose-writers of the century, and he has some claims, as the following specimens attest, to a place among the national poets.



SISTER JEANIE, HASTE, WE 'LL GO.[11]

Sister Jeanie, haste, we 'll go To where the white-starr'd gowans grow, Wi' the puddock-flower, o' gowden hue, The snawdrap white, and the bonnie vi'let blue.

Sister Jeanie, haste, we 'll go To where the blossom'd lilacs grow, To where the pine-tree, dark an' high, Is pointing its tap at the cloudless sky.

Jeanie, mony a merry lay Is sung in the young-leaved woods to-day; Flits on light wing the dragon-flee, And hums on the flowerie the big red bee.

Down the burnie wirks its way Aneath the bending birken spray, An' wimples roun' the green moss-stane, An' mourns, I kenna why, wi' a ceaseless mane.

Jeanie, come! thy days o' play Wi' autumn tide shall pass away; Sune shall these scenes, in darkness cast, Be ravaged wild by the wild winter blast.

Though to thee a spring shall rise, An' scenes as fair salute thine eyes; An' though, through many a cloudless day, My winsome Jean shall be heartsome and gay;

He wha grasps thy little hand Nae langer at thy side shall stand, Nor o'er the flower-besprinkled brae Lead thee the lounnest an' the bonniest way.

Dost thou see yon yard sae green, Speckled wi' mony a mossy stane? A few short weeks o' pain shall fly, An' asleep in that bed shall thy puir brother lie.

Then thy mither's tears awhile May chide thy joy an' damp thy smile; But soon ilk grief shall wear awa', And I 'll be forgotten by ane an' by a'.

Dinna think the thought is sad; Life vex'd me aft, but this maks glad; When cauld my heart and closed my e'e, Bonnie shall the dreams o' my slumbers be.

FOOTNOTES:

[11] These verses were composed when the author was suffering from a severe pulmonary complaint which he feared would bring him to an early grave. They were addressed to his sister, a girl of five years, who at this period was his companion in his walks.



OH, SOFTLY SIGHS THE WESTLIN' BREEZE.

Oh, softly sighs the westlin' breeze Through floweries pearl'd wi' dew; An' brightly lemes the gowden sky, That skirts the mountain blue. An' sweet the birken trees amang, Swells many a blithesome lay; An' loud the bratlin burnie's voice Comes soundin' up the brae.

But, ah! nae mair the sweets o' spring Can glad my wearied e'e; Nae mair the summer's op'ning bloom Gies ought o' joy to me. Dark, dark to me the pearly flowers, An' sad the mavis sang, An' little heart hae I to roam These leafy groves amang.

She 's gane! she 's gane! the loveliest maid! An' wae o'erpress'd I pine; The grass waves o'er my Myra's grave! Ah! ance I ca'd her mine. What ither choice does fate afford, Than just to mourn and dee, Sin' gane the star that cheer'd my sky, The beam that bless'd my e'e?

At gloamin' hour alang the burn, Alane she lo'ed to stray, To pu' the rose o' crimson bloom, An' haw-flower purple gray. Their siller leaves the willows waved As pass'd that maiden by; An' sweeter burst the burdies' sang Frae poplar straight an' high.

Fu' aften have I watch'd at e'en These birken trees amang, To bless the bonnie face that turn'd To where the mavis sang; An' aft I 've cross'd that grassy path, To catch my Myra's e'e; Oh, soon this winding dell became A blissful haunt to me.

Nae mair a wasting form within, A wretched heart I bore; Nae mair unkent, unloved, and lone, The warl' I wander'd o'er. Not then like now my life was wae, Not then this heart repined, Nor aught of coming ill I thought, Nor sigh'd to look behind.

Cheer'd by gay hope's enliv'ning ray, An' warm'd wi' minstrel fire, Th' expected meed that maiden's smile, I strung my rustic lyre. That lyre a pitying Muse had given To me, for, wrought wi' toil, She bade, wi' its simple tones, The weary hours beguile.

Lang had it been my secret pride, Though nane its strains might hear; For ne'er till then trembled its chords To woo a list'ning ear. The forest echoes to its voice Fu' sad, had aft complain'd, Whan, mingling wi' its wayward strain, Murmur'd the midnight wind.

Harsh were its tones, yet Myra praised The wild and artless strain; In pride I strung my lyre anew, An' waked its chords again. The sound was sad, the sparkling tear Arose in Myra's e'e, An' mair I lo'ed that artless drap, Than a' the warl' could gie.

To wean the heart frae warldly grief, Frae warldly moil an' care, Could maiden smile a lovelier smile, Or drap a tend'rer tear? But now she 's gane,—dark, dark an' drear, Her lang, lang sleep maun be; But, ah! mair drear the years o' life That still remain to me!

Whan o'er the raging ocean wave The gloom o' night is spread, If lemes the twinkling beacon-light, The sailor's heart is glad; In hope he steers, but, 'mid the storm, If sinks the waning ray, Dees a' that hope, an' fails his saul, O'erpress'd wi' loads o' wae.



ALEXANDER MACANSH.

The author of "The Social Curse, and other Poems," Alexander Macansh, was born at Dunfermline in 1803. At the age of eleven apprenticed to a flaxdresser, he followed this occupation during a period of thirty-eight years, of which the greater portion was spent in Harribrae factory, in his native town. During the intervals of his occupation, which demanded his attention about fourteen hours daily, he contrived to become familiar with British and continental authors, and with the more esteemed Latin classics. He likewise formed an intimate acquaintance with mathematical science. Of decided poetical tastes, he contributed verses to Tait's Magazine, the Edinburgh Literary Journal, and the Scotsman newspaper. In 1850, he published, by subscription, his volume of poems, entitled "The Social Curse, and other Poems," which has secured him a local reputation. Continuing to reside in Dunfermline, he has, for several years, possessed a literary connexion with some of the provincial newspapers, and has delivered lectures on science to the district institutions. To Mr Joseph Paton, of Dunfermline, so well known for his antiquarian pursuits, he has been indebted for generous support and kindly encouragement. Mr Macansh labours under severe physical debility.



THE MOTHER AND CHILD.

The mother, with her blooming child, Sat by the river pool, Deep in whose waters lay the sky, So stilly beautiful. She held her babe aloft, to see Its infant image look Up joyous, laughing, leaping from The bosom of the brook.

And as it gazed upon the stream, The wondering infant smiled, And stretched its little hands, and tried To clasp the shadow'd child, Which, in that silent underwold, With eager gesture strove To meet it with a brother-kiss, A brother-clasp of love.

Laugh on, laugh on, my happy child, ('Twas thus the mother sung;) The shrew, Experience, has not yet With envious gesture flung Aside the enchanted veil which hides Life's pale and dreary look; An angel lurks in every stream, A heaven in every brook.

Laugh on, laugh on, my happy child, Ere drop the tears of woe Upon that mirror, scattering all Those glorious shapes, and show A fleeting shadow, which thou think'st An angel, breathing, living— A shallow pebbly brook which thou Hast fondly deem'd a heaven.



CHANGE.

Change! change! the mournful story Of all that 's been before; The wrecks of perish'd glory Bestrewing every shore: The shatter'd tower and palace, In every vale and glen, In broken language tell us Of the fleeting power of men.

Change! change! the plough is sweeping O'er some scene of household mirth, The sickle hand is reaping O'er some ancient rural hearth— Where the mother and the daughter In the evenings used to spin, And where little feet went patter, Full often out and in.

Change! change! for all things human, Thrones, powers of amplest wing, Have their flight, and fall in common With the meanest mortal thing— With beauty, love, and passion, With all of earthly trust, With life's tiniest wavelet dashing, Curling, breaking into dust.

Where arose in marble grandeur The wall'd cities of the past, The sullen winds now wander O'er a ruin-mounded waste. Low lies each lofty column; The owl in silence wings O'er floors, where, slow and solemn, Paced the sandal'd feet of kings.

Still change! Go thou and view it, All desolately sunk, The circle of the Druid, The cloister of the monk; The abbey boled and squalid, With its bush-maned, staggering wall; Ask by whom these were unhallow'd— Change, change hath done it all.



THE TOMB OF THE BRUCE.

Yon old temple pile, where the moon dimly flashes O'er gray roof, tall window, sloped buttress, and base, O'erarches the ashes, the now silent ashes, Of the noblest, the bravest, of Scotia's race. How hallow'd yon spot where a hero is lying, Embalm'd in the holiness worship bedews, The lamb watching over the sleep of the lion, Religion enthroned on the tomb of the Bruce!

Far other and fiercer the moments that crown'd him, Than those that now creep o'er yon old temple pile, And sterner the music that storm'd around him, Than the anthem that peals through the long-sounding aisle, When his bugle's fierce tones with the war-hum was blending, And, with claymores engirdled, and banners all loose, His rough-footed warriors, to battle descending, Peal'd up to the heavens the war-cry of Bruce.

I hear him again, with deep voice proclaiming— Let our country be free, or with freedom expire; I see him again, with his great sword o'erflaming The plume-nodding field, like a banner of fire. Still onward it blazes, that red constellation, In its passage no pause, to its flashing no truce: Oh, the pillar of glory that led forth our nation From shackles and chains, was the sword of the Bruce.

But now he is sleeping in darkness; the thunder Of battle to him is now silent and o'er, And the sword, that, like threads, sever'd shackles asunder, Shall gleam in the vanguard of Scotland no more. Yet, oh, though his banner for ever be furled, Though his great sword be rusted and red with disuse, Can freemen, when tyrants would handcuff the world— Can freemen be mute at the Tomb of the Bruce?



JAMES PRINGLE.

James Pringle was born in the parish of Collessie, Fifeshire, on the 11th December 1803. At the parochial school of Kettle having received an ordinary education, he was in his seventeenth year apprenticed to a mill-wright. For many years he has prosecuted this occupation in the district of his nativity. His present residence is in the Den of Lindores, in the parish of Abdie. From his youth he has cherished an enthusiastic love of poetry, and composed verses. In 1853, he published a duodecimo volume, entitled "Poems and Songs on Various Subjects."



THE PLOUGHMAN.

Blithe be the mind of the ploughman, Unruffled by passion or guile; And fair be the face of the woman Who blesses his love with a smile.

His clothing, though russet and homely, With royalty's robe may compare; His cottage, though simple, is comely, For peace and contentment are there.

Let monarchs exult in their splendour, When courtiers obsequiously bow; But are not their greatness and grandeur Sustain'd by the toils of the plough?

The soldier may glory discover In havock which warfare hath made; For the shout of his fame rises over The vanquish'd, the bleeding, the dead.

Though pride, in her trappings so dainty, May sneer with contemptuous air; Fertility, pleasure, and plenty, Still follow the track of the share.

And long may the heart of the ploughman In virtue and vigour beat high; His calling, though simple and common, Our wants and our comforts supply.



WILLIAM ANDERSON.

William Anderson, an accomplished biographical and genealogical writer, and author of "Landscape Lyrics," a volume of descriptive poetry, was born at Edinburgh on the 10th December 1805. His father, James Anderson, supervisor of Excise at Oban, Argyleshire, died there in 1812. His mother was the daughter of John Williams, author of "The Mineral Kingdom," a work much valued by geologists. His brother, Mr John Anderson, surgeon, Royal Lanarkshire Militia, was the author of the "Historical and Genealogical Memoirs of the House of Hamilton."

Mr Anderson received his education at Edinburgh, and in 1820 was apprenticed to a merchant in Leith; but not liking the employment, he was afterwards placed in the office of a writer in Edinburgh, with the view of studying the law. Having a strong bent towards literature, he began to write poetry, and in 1828 became a regular contributor to the press. In 1830 he published a volume of poems designated, "Poetical Aspirations," and soon after issued a thin volume of prose and verse, entitled, "Odd Sketches." Proceeding to London in 1831, he formed the acquaintance of Maginn, Allan Cunningham, and other eminent men of letters. Towards the close of that year he joined the Aberdeen Journal, and in 1835 edited for a short time the Advertiser, another newspaper published in that city. He returned to London in 1836, and resided there for several years, contributing to different periodicals. His "Landscape Lyrics" appeared in 1839, in a quarto volume. In 1840 he commenced writing the lives of distinguished Scotsmen, and the result of his researches appeared in 1842, in a valuable work, entitled, "The Popular Scottish Biography." Previous to the appearance of this volume, he published at London, "The Gift for All Seasons," an annual, which contained contributions from Campbell, Sheridan Knowles, the Countess of Blessington, Miss Pardoe, and other writers of reputation. In 1842 he returned to Scotland, to edit The Western Watchman, a weekly journal published at Ayr. In 1844 he became connected with the Witness newspaper; but in the following year removed to Glasgow, to assist in the establishment of the first Scottish daily newspaper. With that journal, the Daily Mail, he continued two years, till severe nocturnal labour much affecting his health, obliged him temporarily to abandon literary pursuits. He has been a contributor to Tait's Magazine, and was intrusted with the literary superintendence of Major De Renzy's "Poetical Illustrations and Achievements of the Duke of Wellington," a work to which he contributed several poems. He has edited Lord Byron's works, in two octavo volumes, with numerous notes, and a copious Memoir of the poet. Besides a number of smaller works, he is the editor of five volumes, forming a series, entitled, "Treasury of Discovery, Enterprise, and Adventure;" "Treasury of the Animal World;" "Treasury of Ceremonies, Manners, and Customs;" "Treasury of Nature, Science, and Art;" and "Treasury of History and Biography." "The Young Voyager," a poem descriptive of the search after Franklin, with illustrations, intended for children, appeared in 1855. He contributed the greater number of the biographical notices of Scotsmen inserted in "The Men of the Time" for 1856. A large and important national work, devoted to the biography, history, and antiquities of Scotland, has engaged his attention for some years, and is in a forward state for publication.

As a writer of verses, Mr Anderson is possessed of considerable power of fancy, and a correct taste. His song, beginning "I'm naebody noo," has been translated into the German language.



WOODLAND SONG.

Will you go to the woodlands with me, with me, Will you go to the woodlands with me— When the sun 's on the hill, and all nature is still, Save the sound of the far dashing sea?

For I love to lie lone on the hill, on the hill, I love to lie lone on the hill, When earth, sea, and sky, in loveliness vie, And all nature around me is still.

Then my fancy is ever awake, awake, My fancy is never asleep; Like a bird on the wing, like a swan on the lake, Like a ship far away on the deep.

And I love 'neath the green boughs to lie, to lie; I love 'neath the green boughs to lie; And see far above, like the smiling of love, A glimpse now and then of the sky.

When the hum of the forest I hear, I hear, When the hum of the forest I hear,— 'Tis solitude's prayer, pure devotion is there, And its breathings I ever revere.

I kneel myself down on the sod, the sod, I kneel myself down on the sod, 'Mong the flowers and wild heath, and an orison breathe In lowliness up to my God.

Then peace doth descend on my mind, my mind, Then peace doth descend on my mind; And I gain greater scope to my spirit and hope, For both then become more refined.

Oh! whatever my fate chance to be, to be, My spirit shall never repine, If a stroll on the hill, if a glimpse of the sea, If the hum of the forest be mine.



THE WELLS O' WEARY.

Down in the valley lone, Far in the wild wood, Bubble forth springs, each one Weeping like childhood; Bright on their rushy banks, Like joys among sadness, Little flowers bloom in ranks— Glimpses of gladness.

Sweet 'tis to wander forth, Like pilgrims at even; Lifting our souls from earth To fix them on Heaven; Then in our transport deep, This world forsaking: Sleeping as angels sleep, Mortals awaking!



I 'M NAEBODY NOO.

I 'm naebody noo; though in days that are gane, When I 'd hooses, and lands, and gear o' my ain, Ther war' mony to flatter, and mony to praise— And wha but mysel' was sae prood in those days!

Ah! then roun' my table wad visitors thrang, Wha laugh'd at my joke, and applauded my sang, Though the tane had nae point, and the tither nae glee; But, of coorse, they war' grand when comin' frae me!

Whan I 'd plenty to gie, o' my cheer and my crack, Ther war' plenty to come, and wi' joy to partak'; But whanever the water grew scant at the well, I was welcome to drink all alane by mysel'!

Whan I 'd nae need o' aid, there were plenty to proffer; And noo whan I want it, I ne'er get the offer; I could greet whan I think hoo my siller decreast, In the feasting o' those who came only to feast.

The fulsome respec' to my gowd they did gie, I thoucht a' the time was intended for me; But whanever the end o' my money they saw, Their friendship, like it, also flicker'd awa'.

My advice ance was sought for by folks far and near, Sic great wisdom I had ere I tint a' my gear; I 'm as weel able yet to gie counsel, that 's true, But I may jist haud my wheesht, for I 'm naebody noo.



I CANNA SLEEP.

I canna sleep a wink, lassie, When I gang to bed at night, But still o' thee I think, lassie, Till morning sheds its light. I lie an' think o' thee, lassie, And I toss frae side to side, Like a vessel on the sea, lassie, When stormy is the tide.

My heart is no my ain, lassie, It winna bide wi' me; Like a birdie it has gane, lassie, To nestle saft wi' thee. I canna lure it back, lassie, Sae keep it to yoursel'; But oh! it sune will break, lassie, If you dinna use it well.

Where the treasure is, they say, lassie, The spirit lingers there; An' mine has fled away, lassie— You needna ask me where. I marvel oft if rest, lassie, On my eyes and heart would bide, If I thy troth possess'd, lassie, And thou wert at my side.



WILLIAM M. HETHERINGTON, D.D., LL.D.

An accomplished theologian and historical writer, William Hetherington was born on the Galloway side of the valley of the Nith, about the year 1805. With an average education at the parish school, he entered the University of Edinburgh, where he speedily acquired distinction. Amidst studies of a severer nature, he found relaxation in the composition of verses, celebrating the national manners and the interesting scenes of his nativity. These appeared in 1829, in a duodecimo volume, entitled, "Twelve Dramatic Sketches, founded on the Pastoral Poetry of Scotland." Having obtained licence as a probationer of the Established Church, he was in 1836 ordained to the ministerial charge of the parish of Torphichen in the Presbytery of Linlithgow. He joined the Free Church in 1843, and was afterwards translated to St Andrews. In 1848 he became minister of Free St Paul's Church, Edinburgh.

Besides his poetical work, Dr Hetherington has published, "The Fulness of Time," "History of the Church of Scotland," "The Minister's Family," and several separate lectures on different subjects. He was, during the first four years of its existence, editor of the Free Church Magazine. Formerly a frequent contributor to the more esteemed religious periodicals, he has latterly written chiefly for the British and Foreign Evangelical Review.



'TIS SWEET WI' BLITHESOME HEART TO STRAY.

'Tis sweet wi' blithesome heart to stray, In the blushing dawn o' infant day; But sweeter than dewy morn can be, Is an hour i' the mild moonlight wi' thee; An hour wi' thee, an hour wi' thee, An hour i' the mild moonlight wi' thee; The half o' my life I 'd gladly gie For an hour i' the mild moonlight wi' thee.

The garish sun has sunk to rest; The star o' gloaming gilds the west; The gentle moon comes smiling on, And her veil o'er the silent earth is thrown: Then come, sweet maid, oh, come wi' me! The whispering night-breeze calls on thee; Oh, come and roam o'er the lily lea, An hour i' the mild moonlight wi' me.

For wealth let warldlings cark and moil, Let pride for empty honours toil, I 'd a' their wealth and honours gie For ae sweet hour, dear maid, wi' thee. An hour wi' thee, an hour wi' thee, An hour i' the mild moonlight wi' thee; Earth's stores and titles a' I 'd gie For an hour i' the mild moonlight wi' thee.



O SWEET IS THE BLOSSOM.

O sweet is the blossom o' the hawthorn tree, The bonnie milky blossom o' the hawthorn tree, When the saft westlin wind, as it wanders o'er the lea, Comes laden wi' the breath o' the hawthorn tree.

Lovely is the rose in the dewy month o' June, An' the lily gently bending beneath the sunny noon; But dewy rose nor lily fair is half sae sweet to me, As the bonnie milky blossom o' the hawthorn tree.

Oh, blithe at fair an' market fu' aften I hae been, An' wi' a crony frank an' leal, some happy hours I 've seen; But the happiest hours I ere enjoy'd, were shared, my love, wi' thee, In the gloaming 'neath the bonnie, bonnie hawthorn tree.

Sweetly sang the blackbird, low in the woody glen, And fragrance sweet spread on the gale, light o'er the dewy plain; But thy saft voice an' sighing breath were sweeter far to me, While whispering o' love beneath the hawthorn tree.

Old Time may wave his dusky wing, an' Chance may cast his die, And the rainbow hues of flatterin' Hope may darken in the sky; Gay Summer pass, an' Winter stalk stern o'er the frozen lea, Nor leaf, nor milky blossom deck the hawthorn tree:

But still'd maun be the pulse that wakes this glowing heart o' mine, For me nae mair the spring maun bud, nor summer blossoms shine, An' low maun be my hame, sweet maid, ere I be false to thee, Or forget the vows I breathed beneath the hawthorn tree.



THOMAS WATSON.

Thomas Watson, author of "The Rhymer's Family," a small volume of poems, published in 1847, was born at Arbroath about the year 1807. He some time wrought as a weaver, but has latterly adopted the trade of a house-painter. He continues to reside in his native place.



THE SQUIRE O' LOW DEGREE.

My luve 's a flower in garden fair, Her beauty charms the sicht o' men; And I 'm a weed upon the wolde, For nane reck how I fare or fen'. She blooms in beild o' castle wa', I bide the blast o' povertie; My covert looks are treasures stown— Sae how culd my luve think o' me?

My luve is like the dawn o' day, She wears a veil o' woven mist; And hoary cranreuch deftly flower'd, Lies paling on her maiden breast; Her kirtle at her jimpy waist, Has studs o' gowd to clasp it wi' She decks her hair wi' pearlis rare— And how culd my luve think o' me?

My cloak is o' the Friesland gray, My doublet o' the gay Walloon, I wear the spurs o' siller sheen, And yet I am a landless loon; I ride a steed o' Flanders breed, I beare a sword upon my theigh, And that is a' my graith and gear— Sae how culd my luve think o' me?

My luve's rose lips breathe sweet perfume, Twa pearlie raws pure faire atween, The happie dimples dent her cheeks, And diamonds low in her dark e'en; Her haire is o' the gowden licht, But dark the fringes o' her bree; Her smile wuld warm cauld winter's heart— But how culd my luve think o' me?

My luve is tended like a queen, She sits among her maidens fair; There 's ane to send, and ane to sew, And ane to kame her gowden hair; The lutestrings luve her fingers sma', Her lips are steept in melodie; My heart is fu'—my e'en rin ower— Oh, how culd my luve think o' me?

My luve she sits her palfrey white, Mair fair to see than makar's dream O' faery queen on moonbeam bricht, Or mermaid on the saut sea faem. A belted knicht is by her side, I 'm but a squire o' low degree; A baron halds her bridle-rein— And how culd my luve think o' me?

But I will don the pilgrim's weeds, And boune me till the Holy Land, A' for the sake o' my dear luve, To keep unstain'd my heart and hand. And when this world is gane to wreck, Wi' a' its pride and vanitie, Within the blessed bouris o' heaven, We then may meet—my luve and me.



JAMES MACDONALD.

A respectable writer of lyric poetry, James Macdonald was born in September 1807, in the parish of Fintry, and county of Stirling. His father was employed in the cotton factory of Culcruich. Of unwonted juvenile precocity, he attracted the attention of two paternal uncles, whose circumstances enabled them to provide him with a liberal education. Acquiring the rudiments of learning at Culcruich, he afterwards studied at the grammar school of Stirling, and proceeded, in 1822, to the university of Glasgow. Intended by his relations for the ministry of the Established Church, he attended the Divinity Hall during three sessions. Preferring secular employment, he now abandoned the study of theology, and occupied himself in educational pursuits. After teaching in several boarding establishments, he became corrector of the press in the printing-office of Messrs Blackie of Glasgow. Having suffered on account of bad health, he was induced to accept the appointment of Free Church schoolmaster at Blairgowrie. His health continuing to decline, he removed to the salubrious village of Catrine, in Ayrshire: he died there on the 27th May 1848. Macdonald was a devoted teacher of Sabbath schools; and his only separate publications are two collections of hymns for their use.



BONNIE AGGIE LANG.

Or ere we part, my heart leaps hie to sing ae bonnie sang, Aboot my ain sweet lady-love, my darling Aggie Lang; It is na that her cheeks are like the blooming damask rose, It is na that her brow is white as stainless Alpine snows, It is na that her locks are black as ony raven's wing, Nor is 't her e'e o' winning glee that mak's me fondly sing.

But, oh! her heart, a bonnie well, that gushes fresh an' free O' maiden love, and happiness, and a' that sweet can be; Though saft the sang o' simmer winds, the warbling o' the stream, The carolling o' joyous birds, the murmur o' a dream, I 'd rather hear a'e gentle word frae Aggie's angel tongue, For weel I ken her heart is mine—the fountain whar it sprung.

Yestreen I met her in a glen about the gloamin' hour; The moon was risen o'er the trees, the dew begemm'd ilk flower, The weary wind was hush'd asleep, an' no a sough cam' nigh, E'en frae the waukrife stream that ran in silver glintin' by; I press'd her milk-white han' in mine—she smiled as angels smile, But ah! frae me her tale o' love this warld manna wile.

I saw the silver light o' heaven fa' on her bonnie brow, An' glitter on the honey-blabs upon her cherry mou'; I saw the lily moonbeams steal the redness o' the rose, An' sleep upon her downy cheek in beautiful repose. The moon rose high, the stream gaed by, but aye she smiled on me, An' what she wadna breathe in words she tauld it wi' here e'e.

I 've sat within a palace hall amid the grand an' gay, I 've listen'd to the carnival o' merry birds in May, I 've been in joyous companies, the wale o' mirth an' glee, An' danced in nature's fairy bowers by mountain, lake, and lea; But never has this heart o' mine career'd in purer pride, As in that moonlit glen an' bower, wi' Aggie by my side.



THE PRIDE O' THE GLEN.

Oh, bonnie 's the lily that blooms in the valley, And fair is the cherry that grows on the tree; The primrose smiles sweet as it welcomes the simmer, And modest 's the wee gowan's love-talking e'e; Mair dear to my heart is that lown cosy dingle, Whar late i' the gloamin', by the lanely "Ha' den," I met with the fairest ere bounded in beauty, By the banks o' the Endrick, the pride o' the glen.

She 's pure as the spring cloud that smiles in the welkin, An blithe as the lambkin that sports on the lea; Her heart is a fount rinnin' owre wi' affection, And a warld o' feeling is the love o' her e'e. The prince may be proud o' his vast hoarded treasures, The heir o' his grandeur and high pedigree; They kenna the happiness dwalt in my bosom, When alane wi' the angel o' luve and o' le.

I 've seen the day dawn in a shower-drappin' goud, The grass spread wi' dew, like a wide siller sea; The clouds shinin' bricht in a deep amber licht, And the earth blushin' back to the glad lift on hie. I 've dream'd o' a palace wi' gem-spangled ha's, And proud wa's a' glitterin' in rich diamond sheen Wi' towers shinin' fair, through the rose-tinted air, And domes o' rare pearls and rubies atween.

I 've sat in a garden, 'mid earth's gayest flowers, A' gaudily shawin' their beauteous dyes, And breathin' in calm the air's fragrant balm, Like angels asleep on the plains o' the skies; Yet the garden, and palace, and day's rosy dawning, Though in bless'd morning dreams they should aft come again, Can ne'er be sae sweet as the bonnie young lassie, That bloom'd by the Endrick, the pride of the glen.

The exile, in sleep, haunts the land o' his fathers, The captive's ae dream is his hour to be free; The weary heart langs for the morning rays comin', The oppress'd, for his sabbath o' sweet liberty. But my life's only hope, my heart's only prayer, Is the day that I 'll ca' the young lassie my ain; Though a' should forsake me, wi' her I 'll be happy, On the banks o' the Endrick, the pride o' the glen.



MARY.

The winter's cauld and cheerless blast May rob the feckless tree, Mary, And lay the young flowers in the dust, Whar' ance they bloom'd in glee, Mary. It canna chill my bosom's hopes— It canna alter thee, Mary; The summer o' thy winsome face Is aye the same to me, Mary.

The gloom o' life, its cruel strife, May wear me fast awa', Mary; An' lea'e me like a cauld, cauld corpse, Amang the drifting snaw, Mary. Yet 'mid the drift, wert thou but nigh, I 'd fauld my weary e'e, Mary; And deem the wild and raging storm, A laverock's sang o' glee, Mary.

My heart can lie in ruin's dust, And fortune's winter dree, Mary; While o'er it shines the diamond ray, That glances frae thine e'e, Mary. The rending pangs and waes o' life, The dreary din o' care, Mary, I 'll welcome, gin they lea'e but thee, My lanely lot to share, Mary.

As o'er yon hill the evening star Is wilin' day awa', Mary; Sae sweet and fair art thou to me, At life's sad gloamin' fa', Mary. It gars me greet wi' vera joy, Whene'er I think on thee, Mary, That sic a heart sae true as thine, Should e'er ha'e cared for me, Mary.



JAMES BALLANTINE.

James Ballantine, one of the most successful of living Scottish song writers, was born in 1808 at the West Port of Edinburgh. Of this locality, now considerably changed in its character, but still endeared to him by the associations of his boyhood, he has given a graphic description in a poem, in which he records some of the cherished recollections of the days when amid its "howffs," and "laigh" half-doored shops he "gat schulin' and sport." He lost his father, who was a brewer, when he was only ten years old, and, being the youngest of the family, which consisted of three daughters and himself, his early training devolved upon his mother, who contrived to obtain for her children the advantage of an ordinary education. James Ballantine must, however, be considered as a self-taught man. Beyond the training which he received in early life, he owes his present position to his own indefatigable exertions.

By his father's death, the poet was necessitated, while yet a mere boy, to exert himself for his own support and the assistance of the family. He was, accordingly, apprenticed to a house-painter in the city, and very soon attained to considerable proficiency in his trade. On growing up to manhood, he made strenuous exertions to obtain the educational advantages which were not within his reach at an earlier period of life, and about his twentieth year he attended the University of Edinburgh for the study of anatomy, with a view to his professional improvement. At a subsequent period he turned his attention to the art of painting on glass, and he has long been well-known as one of the most distinguished of British artists in that department. At the period Mr Ballantine began his career as a glass-painter, the art had greatly degenerated in character; and the position to which it has of late years attained is chiefly owing to his good taste and archaeological researches. When the designs and specimens of glass-painting for the windows of the House of Lords were publicly competed for, the Royal Commissioners of the Fine Arts adjudged those produced by Mr Ballantine as the best which were exhibited, and the execution of the work was intrusted to him. A few years ago he published a work on stained glass, which has been translated and published in Germany, where it retains its popularity. Mr Ballantine has thus never allowed his literary pursuits to interfere with the exercise of his chosen avocations; "he has," in the words of Lord Cockburn, "made the business feed the Muses, and the Muses grace the business."

Although Mr Ballantine began at a very early age to woo the Muse, some of his most popular pieces having been produced about his sixteenth year, he made his first appearance in print in the pages of "Whistle Binkie." In 1843 his well-known work, "The Gaberlunzie's Wallet," was published in monthly numbers, illustrated by the late Alexander Ritchie. This production was enriched with some of his best lyrics. His second work, "The Miller of Deanhaugh," likewise contains a number of songs and ballads. In 1856 Messrs Constable & Co., of Edinburgh, published an edition of his poems, including many of those which had been previously given to the world. This volume contains the happiest effusions of his genius, and will procure him a prominent place in his country's literature. Mr Ballantine is the poet of the affections, a lover of the beautiful and tender among the humbler walks of life, and an exponent of the lessons to be drawn from familiar customs, common sayings, and simple character.



NAEBODY'S BAIRN.

She was Naebody's bairn, she was Naebody's bairn, She had mickle to thole, she had mickle to learn, Afore a kind word or kind look she could earn, For naebody cared about Naebody's bairn.

Though faither or mither ne'er own'd her ava, Though rear'd by the fremmit for fee unco sma', She grew in the shade like a young lady-fern, For Nature was bounteous to Naebody's bairn.

Though toited by some, and though lightlied by mair, She never compleened, though her young heart was sair, And warm virgin tears that might melted cauld airn Whiles glist in the blue e'e o' Naebody's bairn.

Though nane cheer'd her childhood, an' nane hail'd her birth, Heaven sent her an angel to gladden the earth; And when the earth doom'd her in laigh nook to dern, Heaven couldna but tak again Naebody's bairn.

She cam smiling sweetly as young mornin' daw, Like lown simmer gloamin' she faded awa, And lo! how serenely that lone e'ening starn Shines on the greensward that haps Naebody's bairn!



CASTLES IN THE AIR.

The bonnie, bonnie bairn sits pokin' in the ase, Glowerin' in the fire wi' his wee round face; Laughin' at the fuffin low—what sees he there? Ha! the young dreamer 's biggin' castles in the air!

His wee chubby face, an' his towzy curly pow, Are laughin' an noddin' to the dancin' lowe, He 'll brown his rosy cheeks, and singe his sunny hair, Glowerin' at the imps wi' their castles in the air.

He sees muckle castles towerin' to the moon, He sees little sodgers puin' them a' doun; Warlds whomlin' up an' doun, blazin' wi' a flare, Losh! how he loups, as they glimmer in the air.

For a' sae sage he looks, what can the laddie ken? He 's thinkin' upon naething, like mony mighty men, A wee thing mak's us think, a sma' thing mak's us stare,— There are mair folks than him biggin' castles in the air.

Sic a night in winter may weel mak' him cauld; His chin upon his buffy hand will soon mak' him auld; His brow is brent sae braid, oh, pray that Daddy Care Wad let the wean alane wi' his castles in the air.

He 'll glower at the fire, an' he 'll keek at the light; But mony sparkling stars are swallow'd up by night; Aulder e'en than his are glamour'd by a glare, Hearts are broken—heads are turn'd—wi' castles in the air.



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

Confide ye aye in Providence, for Providence is kind, An' bear ye a' life's changes wi' a calm an' tranquil mind, Though press'd an' hemm'd on every side, hae faith an' ye 'll win through, For ilka blade o' grass keps its ain drap o' dew.

Gin reft frae friends, or crost in love, as whiles nae doubt ye 've been, Grief lies deep-hidden in your heart, or tears flow frae your e'en, Believe it for the best, and trow there 's good in store for you, For ilka blade o' grass keps its ain drap o' dew.

In lang, lang days o' simmer when the clear and cludless sky Refuses ae wee drap o' rain to Nature parch'd and dry, The genial night, wi balmy breath, gaurs verdure spring anew, An' ilka blade o' grass keps its ain drap o' dew.

Sae lest 'mid fortune's sunshine we should feel ower proud an' hie, An' in our pride forget to wipe the tear frae poortith's e'e, Some wee dark cluds o' sorrow come, we ken na whence or hoo, But ilka blade o' grass keps its ain drap o' dew.



WIFIE, COME HAME.

Wifie, come hame, My couthie wee dame! Oh, but ye 're far awa, Wifie, come hame! Come wi' the young bloom o' morn on thy broo, Come wi' the lown star o' love in thine e'e, Come wi' the red cherries ripe on thy mou', A' glist wi' balm, like the dew on the lea. Come wi' the gowd tassels fringin' thy hair, Come wi' thy rose cheeks a' dimpled wi' glee, Come wi' thy wee step, and wifie-like air, Oh, quickly come, and shed blessings on me!

Wifie, come hame, My couthie wee dame! Oh, my heart wearies sair, Wifie, come hame! Come wi' our love pledge, our dear little dawtie, Clasping my neck round, an' clamb'rin' my knee; Come let me nestle and press the wee pettie, Gazing on ilka sweet feature o' thee. Oh, but the house is a cauld hame without ye, Lanely and eerie 's the life that I dree; Oh, come awa', an' I 'll dance round about ye, Ye 'll ne'er again win frae my arms till I dee.



THE BIRDIE SURE TO SING IS AYE THE GORBEL O' THE NEST.

Oh, dinna look ye pridefu' doon on a' aneath your ken, For he wha seems the farthest but aft wins the farthest ben; And whiles the doubie o' the school tak's lead o' a' the rest, The birdie sure to sing is aye the gorbel o' the nest.

The cauld gray misty morn aft brings a sultry sunny day, The trees wha's buds are latest are the langest to decay; The heart sair tried wi' sorrow aye endures the sternest test— The birdie sure to sing is aye the gorbel o' the nest.

The wee, wee stern that glints in heaven, may be a lowin' sun, Though like a speck o' light, scarce seen amid the welkin dun; The humblest sodger on the field may win the warrior's crest— The birdie sure to sing is aye the gorbel o' the nest.

Then dinna be impatient wi' your bairnie when he 's slow, And dinna scorn the humble, though the world deem them low; The hindmost and the feeblest aft become the first and best— The birdie sure to sing is aye the gorbel o' the nest.



CREEP AFORE YE GANG.

Creep awa', my bairnie, creep afore ye gang; Cock ye baith your lugs to your auld grannie's sang; Gin ye gang as far ye will think the road lang, Creep awa', my bairnie—creep afore ye gang.

Creep awa', my bairnie, ye 're ower young to learn To tot up and down yet, my bonnie wee bairn; Better creepin' cannie, as fa'in' wi' a bang, Duntin' a' your wee brow—creep afore ye gang.

Ye 'll creep, an' ye 'll hotch, an' ye 'll nod to your mither, Watchin' ilka stap o' your wee donsy brither; Rest ye on the floor till your wee limbs grow strang, An' ye 'll be a braw cheil' yet—creep afore ye gang.

The wee burdie fa's when it tries ower soon to flee; Folks are sure to tumble when they climb ower hie; They wha dinna walk right are sure to come to wrang— Creep awa', my bairnie—creep afore ye gang.



AE GUDE TURN DESERVES ANITHER.

Ye mauna be proud, although ye be great, The puirest bodie is still your brither; The king may come in the cadger's gate— Ae gude turn deserves anither.

The hale o' us rise frae the same cauld clay, Ae hour we bloom, ae hour we wither; Let ilk help ither to climb the brae— Ae gude turn deserves anither.

The highest among us are unco wee, Frae Heaven we get a' our gifts thegither; Hoard na, man, what ye get sae free!— Ae gude turn deserves anither.

Life is a weary journey alane, Blithe 's the road when we wend wi' ither; Mutual gi'ing is mutual gain— Ae gude turn deserves anither.



THE NAMELESS LASSIE.

There 's nane may ever guess or trow my bonnie lassie's name, There 's nane may ken the humble cot my lassie ca's her hame; Yet though my lassie's nameless, an' her kin o' low degree, Her heart is warm, her thochts are pure, and, oh! she 's dear to me.

She 's gentle as she 's bonnie, an' she 's modest as she 's fair, Her virtues, like her beauties a', are varied as they 're rare; While she is light an' merry as the lammie on the lea— For happiness an' innocence thegither aye maun be!

Whene'er she shews her blooming face, the flowers may cease to blaw, An' when she opes her hinnied lips, the air is music a'; But when wi' ither's sorrows touch'd, the tear starts to her e'e, Oh! that 's the gem in beauty's crown, the priceless pearl to me.

Within my soul her form 's enshrined, her heart is a' my ain, An' richer prize or purer bliss nae mortal e'er can gain; The darkest paths o' life I tread wi' steps o' bounding glee, Cheer'd onward by the love that lichts my nameless lassie's e'e.



BONNIE BONALY.

Bonnie Bonaly's wee fairy-led stream, Murmurs and sobs like a child in a dream; Falling where silver light gleams on its breast, Gliding through nooks where the dark shadows rest, Flooding with music its own tiny valley, Dances in gladness the stream o' Bonaly.

Proudly Bonaly's gray-brow'd castle towers, Bounded by mountains, and bedded in flowers; Here hangs the blue bell, and there waves the broom; Nurtured by art, rarest garden sweets bloom; Heather and thyme scent the breezes that dally, Playing amang the green knolls o' Bonaly.

Pentland's high hills raise their heather-crown'd crest, Peerless Edina expands her white breast, Beauty and grandeur are blent in the scene, Bonnie Bonaly lies smiling between; Nature and Art, like fair twins, wander gaily; Friendship and love dwell in bonnie Bonaly.



SAFT IS THE BLINK O' THINE E'E, LASSIE.

Oh, saft is the blink o' thine e'e, lassie, Saft is the blink o' thine e'e; An' a bonnie wee sun glimmers in its blue orb, As kindly it glints upon me.

The ringlets that twine round thy brow, lassie, Are gowden, as gowden may be; Like the wee curly cluds that play round the sun, When he 's just going to drap in the sea.

Thou hast a bonnie wee mou', lassie, As sweet as a body may pree; And fondly I 'll pree that wee hinny mou', E'en though thou shouldst frown upon me.

Thou hast a lily-white hand, lassie, As fair as a body may see; An' saft is the touch o' that wee genty hand, At e'en when thou partest wi' me.

Thy thoughts are sae haly and pure, lassie, Thy heart is sae kind and sae free; My bosom is flooded wi' sunshine an' joy, Wi' ilka blithe blink o' thine e'e.



THE MAIR THAT YE WORK, AYE THE MAIR WILL YE WIN.

Be eident, be eident, fleet time rushes on, Be eident, be eident, bricht day will be gone; To stand idle by is a profitless sin: The mair that ye work, aye the mair will ye win.

The earth gathers fragrance while nursing the flower, The wave waxes stronger while feeding the shower, The stream gains in speed as it sweeps o'er the linn: The mair that ye work, aye the mair will ye win.

There 's nought got by idling, there 's nought got for nought, Health, wealth, and contentment, by labour are bought; In raising yoursel', ye may help up your kin: The mair that ye work, aye the mair will ye win.

Let every man aim in his heart to excel, Let every man ettle to fend for himsel'; Aye nourish ye stern independence within: The mair that ye work, aye the mair will ye win.



THE WIDOW.

The widow is feckless, the widow 's alane, Yet nae ane e'er hears the puir widow complain; For, ah! there 's a Friend that the world wots na o', Wha brightens her ken, and wha lightens her wo.

She looks a' around her, and what sees she there But quarrels and cavils, but sorrow and care? She looks in within, and she feels in her breast A dawning o' glory, a foretaste o' rest.

The hope o' hereafter her lane bosom cheers, She langs sair to meet him wha left her in tears; And life's flickerin' licht, as it wanes fast awa', But fades to gie place to a far brichter daw.

The God o' high heaven is her comfort and guide, When earthly friends leave her, He stands by her side; He soothes a' her sorrows, an' hushes her fears, An' fountains o' joy rise frae well-springs o' tears.

Then, oh! shew the widow the smile on your face, She 's aft puir in gear, but she 's aft rich in grace; Be kind to the widow, her Friend is on high, You 'll meet wi' the widow again in the sky.



MRS ELIZA A. H. OGILVY.

The accomplished author of some poetical works, Mrs Eliza A. H. Ogilvy, is the daughter of Abercromby Dick, Esq., who for many years held an appointment in the civil service of the Honourable East India Company. Her childhood was passed in Scotland, under the care of her paternal uncle, Sir Robert Dick of Tullymett, who, at the head of his division, fell at the battle of Sobraon. After a period of residence in India, to which she had gone in early youth, she returned to Britain. In 1843, she was united in marriage to David Ogilvy, Esq., a cadet of the old Scottish family of Inverquharity. Several years of her married life have been spent in Italy; at present she resides with her husband and children at Sydenham, Kent. "A Book of Scottish Minstrelsy," being a series of ballads founded on legendary tales of the Scottish Highlands, appeared from her pen in 1846, and was well received by the press. She has since published "Traditions of Tuscany," and "Poems of Ten Years."



CRAIG ELACHIE.

Blue are the hills above the Spey, The rocks are red that line his way; Green is the strath his waters lave, And fresh the turf upon the grave Where sleep my sire and sisters three, Where none are left to mourn for me: Stand fast, stand fast, Craig Elachie!

The roofs that shelter'd me and mine Hold strangers of a Sassenach line; Our hamlet thresholds ne'er can shew The friendly forms of long ago; The rooks upon the old yew-tree Would e'en have stranger notes to me: Stand fast, stand fast, Craig Elachie!

The cattle feeding on the hills, We tended once o'er moors and rills, Like us have gone; the silly sheep Now fleck the brown sides of the steep, And southern eyes their watchers be, And Gael and Sassenach ne'er agree: Stand fast, stand fast, Craig Elachie!

Where are the elders of our glen, Wise arbiters for meaner men? Where are the sportsmen, keen of eye, Who track'd the roe against the sky; The quick of hand, of spirit free? Pass'd, like a harper's melody: Stand fast, stand fast, Craig Elachie!

Where are the maidens of our vale, Those fair, frank daughters of the Gael? Changed are they all, and changed the wife, Who dared, for love, the Indian's life; The little child she bore to me Sunk in the vast Atlantic sea: Stand fast, stand fast, Craig Elachie!

Bare are the moors of broad Strathspey, Shaggy the western forests gray; Wild is the corri's autumn roar, Wilder the floods of this far shore; Dark are the crags of rushing Dee, Darker the shades of Tennessee: Stand fast, stand fast, Craig Elachie!

Great rock, by which the Grant hath sworn, Since first amid the mountains born; Great rock, whose sterile granite heart Knows not, like us, misfortune's smart, The river sporting at thy knee, On thy stern brow no change can see: Stand fast, stand fast, Craig Elachie!

Stand fast on thine own Scottish ground, By Scottish mountains flank'd around, Though we uprooted, cast away From the warm bosom of Strathspey, Flung pining by this western sea, The exile's hopeless lot must dree: Stand fast, stand fast, Craig Elachie!

Yet strong as thou the Grant shall rise, Cleft from his clansmen's sympathies; In these grim wastes new homes we 'll rear, New scenes shall wear old names so dear; And while our axes fell the tree, Resound old Scotia's minstrelsy: Stand fast, stand fast, Craig Elachie!

Here can no treacherous chief betray For sordid gain our new Strathspey; No fearful king, no statesmen pale, Wrench the strong claymore from the Gael. With arm'd wrist and kilted knee, No prairie Indian half so free: Stand fast, stand fast, Craig Elachie!



JOHN FINLAY.

John Finlay was born at Glasgow in 1808, and is one of the partners in the respectable firm of R. G. Finlay & Co., manufacturers in that city. Amidst due attention to the active prosecution of business, he has long been keenly devoted to the principal national games—curling, angling, bowling, quoiting, and archery—in all of which he has frequently carried off prizes at the various competitions throughout the country. To impart humorous sociality to the friendly meetings of the different societies of which he is a member, Mr Finlay was led to become a song-writer. There is scarcely a characteristic of any of his favourite games which he has not celebrated in racy verse. Some of his songs have obtained celebrity in certain counties where the national sports are peculiarly cultivated.



THE NOBLE SCOTTISH GAME.

AIR—"Castles in the Air."

The King is on the throne wi' his sceptre an' his croon, The elements o' cauld are the courtiers staunin' roun'; He lifts his icy haun', an' he speaks wi' awe profound, He chills the balmy air, and he binds the yielding ground; He calms the raging winds when they moan and loudly rave, He stops the rinnin' stream, and he stills the dancin' wave; He calls the curlers on to the field of hope and fame, An' the spreading lake resounds wi' the noble Scottish game!

The hedges an' the trees are a' hung wi' pearls braw, An' the rinks are glancing clear 'mang the heaps o' shinin' snaw; The wee birds in the blast are a' tremblin' wi' the cauld; The sheep are lyin' close in the safely guarded fauld; The farmer leaves the plough, an' the weaver leaves the loom, Auld age gangs totterin' by wi' the youth in manhood's bloom; The miseries o' life are a' banish'd far frae hame, When the curlers meet to play at the brave old Scottish game!

It makes the auld folk young, an' the crimson tide to flow, It gars the pale face shine wi' a fresh and ruddy glow; The rich forget their state and the charms o' wealth and power, When the bosom swells wi' joy in the bright triumphant hour. The wise may laugh an' sneer, and the unco guid may gloom At the happy, happy man, wi' his curlin' stanes and broom; The melody to charm is the sport we love to name, Ah! there 's music in the stanes, at the rare old Scottish game!

The warm and glowin' clime will subdue the manly form; The curler's happy hame is the land o' mist an' storm, Where the dreary winter reigns wi' a wide extended sway, An' the heathy moors are clad in a robe o' white array, Till the gentle breath o' spring blaws the icy fields awa', To woo the springin' flowers, and to melt the frozen snaw. When the curlin' days are o'er, a' the joys o' life are tame— There 's naething warms the heart like the noble Scottish game!



THE MERRY BOWLING-GREEN.

AIR—"Castles in the Air."

The gloomy days are gone With the blasts o' winter keen; The flowers are blooming fair, And the trees are budding green; The lark is in the sky, With his music ringing loud, Raining notes of joy From the sunny Summer cloud— Springing at the dawn With the blushing light of day, And quivering with delight In the morning's golden ray; But there 's rapture dearer far In the warm and social power Of the merry bowling-green, In the happy evening hour!

The lights and shades of life, Like an April day, are seen, 'Mid the melting sunny showers, On the lively bowling-green. The Spring and Autumn meet When the old and young are there, And mirth and wisdom chase From the heart the thoughts of care. When the creaking wheels of life Are revolving weak and slow, And the dashing tide of hope May be ebbing dark and low, The sons of wealth and toil Feel the sweet and soothing power Of the merry bowling-green, In the charming leisure hour!

The streams of life run on Till they fall into the sea; And the flowers are left behind, With their fragrance on the lea. The circling flight of time Will soon make the young folk old; And pleasure dances on Till the springs of life grow cold. We 'll taste the joys of life As the hours are gliding fast, And learn to live and love From the follies of the past; And remember with delight, When misfortunes intervene, The happy days we 've spent On the merry bowling-green.



THOMAS TOD STODDART.

Thomas Tod Stoddart, well-known through his ingenious works on angling, was born on the 14th February 1810 in Argyle Square, Edinburgh. In the chamber of his birth Dr Robertson is said to have written the "History of Scotland." His father, a rear-admiral in the navy, shared in several distinguished services: he was present at Lord Howe's victory at the landing in Egypt; at the battles of the Nile and Copenhagen, and in many desperate encounters between Russia and Sweden. Young Stoddart was educated at a Moravian establishment at Fairfield, near Manchester, and subsequently passed through a course of philosophy and law in the University of Edinburgh. Early devoted to verse-making, he composed a tragedy in his ninth year; and at the age of sixteen was the successful competitor in Professor Wilson's class, for a poem on "Idolatry." He was an early contributor to the Edinburgh Literary Journal.

Mr Stoddart studied for the Bar, and passed advocate in 1833. Finding the legal profession uncongenial, he soon relinquished it; and entering upon the married state in 1836, he has since resided at Kelso. For many years he has divided his time between the pursuits of literature, and the recreation of angling. In 1831, he published "The Deathwake, or Lunacy, a Poem;" in 1834, "The Art of Angling;" in 1836, "Angling Reminiscences;" in 1839, "Songs and Poems;" and in 1844, "Abel Massinger; or the Aeronaut, a Romance." The second of these publications has been remodelled, and under the title of "The Angler's Companion," has exhausted several impressions, and continues in general favour. The volume of "Songs" having been sold out, a new edition, along with a tragedy, entitled "The Crown Jewel," and "The Aeronaut," both still in MS., may be expected. Living at Kelso, Mr Stoddart has every opportunity of prosecuting his favourite pastime in the Tweed, and enjoying scenery calculated to foster the poetic temperament.



ANGLING SONG.

Bring the rod, the line, the reel! Bring, oh, bring the osier creel! Bring me flies of fifty kinds, Bring me showers, and clouds, and winds, All things right and tight, All things well and proper, Trailer red and bright, Dark and wily dropper; Casts of midges bring, Made of plover hackle, With a gaudy wing, And a cobweb tackle.

Lead me where the river flows, Shew me where the alder grows, Reel and rushes, moss and mead, To them lead me—quickly lead, Where the roving trout Watches round an eddy, With his eager snout Pointed up and ready, Till a careless fly, On the surface wheeling, Tempts him, rising sly From his safe concealing.

There, as with a pleasant friend, I the happy hours will spend, Urging on the subtle hook, O'er the dark and chancy nook, With a hand expert Every motion swaying, And on the alert When the trout are playing; Bring me rod and reel, Flies of every feather, Bring the osier creel, Send me glorious weather!