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devotion as wife and mother appears deserving of every praise. It was thought the death of his child, a lovely girl of tender years, 'hastened his own. Almost his last effort was the letter he wrote his brother. He said: “I am dangerously ill, and not likely to get better. God keep my wife and children." His premonitions were correct. Fever, delirium and debility finished a life which had rapidly decayed beneath the delicate peculiarities that belong to the temperament of genius, and accordingly, at the early age of thirty-eight, Scotland mourned her brilliant and gifted son.

A few lines expressive of his affection for his wife also shows his devotional tendency :

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O all ye powers who rule above,
O Thou whose very self art love,

Thou know'st my words sincere;
The life-blood streaming through my heart,
Or my more dear immortal part,

Is not more fondly dear.
When heart-corroding care and grief

Deprive my soul of rest,
Her dwar idea brings relief
And solace to my breast.

Thou Being all-seeing,
O hear my fervent prayer,
Still take her and make her

Thy most peculiar care.

Another evidence that he still in his better moods remembered the religious training of his youth, and wearied with the disappointments and false promises of friends, his spirit longed for rest, is given in the annexed beautiful poem:

I'm wearin' awa', Jean
Like sma'-wraiths in tha', Jean,
I'm wearin' awa'

To the Land of the Leal.

There's nae sorrow there, Jean,
There's nither could mair care, Jean,
The days are a' fair

I' the Land o' the Leal.

Odry your gistening e'e, Jean,
My soul langs to be free, Jean,
And angels beckon me

To the Land o' the Leal.

Ye have been gude an? true, Jean,
Your task's near ended noo, Jean,
And I'll welcome you

To the Land of the Leal.

Our bonny bairn's there, Jean,
She was baith gude and fair, Jean,
And we grudged her sair

To the Land othe Leal. MOTHERWELL.

If William Motherwell had never written but the poem of Jeanie Morrison, it would have gained for him an immortality. He has been compared to Burns in his exquisite tenderness and pathos. Like him, he was at one time a violent partizan and an uncompromising politician; but when years have passed away the petty interests of a local sphere are lost, with all their elements of bitterness and hatred. The beautiful sentiments of Jeanie Morrison will weave an imperishable chaplet for the brow of him who lives in this touching and pure


record of a faithful heart. Of this

Of this poem it has been said “that while the charming song appears like an irrepressible gush of feeling that would find vent, yet its finish was the result not of a curious felicity, but of the nicest elaboration.” By touching and retouching during many years, did Jeanie Morrison attain her perfection. If the reader will but have patience with the peculiar dialect, he will find himself amply repaid in its perusal:

I've wandered east, I've wandered west,

Through mony a weary way;
But never, never can forget

The luve o' life's young day;
The fire that's blown on Beltan's e'en

May weel be black gin Yule,
But fa awaits the heart

Where first fond luve grows cule.

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