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I ran to 1ka dear friend's room,

As if to see them there;
I knew where ilk ane used to sit,

And hung o'er mony a chair ;
Till soft remembrance flung a veil

Across these een o'mine
I closed the door, and sobbed aloud,

To think on auld langsyne.

Some pensy chiels, a new sprung race,

Wad next their welcome pay, Wha shuddered at my gothic wa's,

And wished my groves awa. "Cut, cut," they cried, "yon aged elms,

Lay low yon mournfu' pine :" “Na! na! our fathers' names grow there,

Memorials o' langsyne."

To wean me fra these mournfu' thoughts,

They took me to the town;
But sair on ilka weel-kenned face,

I missed the youthfu’ bloom.
At ba's they pointed to a nymph,

Whom a' declared divine;
But sure her mother's blushing cheeks

Were fairer far langsyne.

In vain I sought in music's sound,

To find that magic art,
Which aft in Scotland's ancient lays

Hae thrilled through a' my heart;

mony an artfu' turn, My ear confessed 'twas fine, But I missed the simple melody

I listened to langsyne.

Ye sons to comrades o' my youth,

Forgie an auld man's spleen,
Wha midst your gayest scenes still mourns

The days he ance has seen.
When time has passed, and seasons fled,

Your hearts will feel like mine,

the song.will maist delight
That minds ye o' langsyne.

I add an example of a still bolder effort-an attempt to make tender sentiment be felt under the disguise of the rude dialect of Cumberland. Perhaps it may be the effect of Auld Lang Syne on myself, that makes me think it eminently successful.


And auld Robin Forbes has gi’en tem a dance,
I pat on my speckets to see them aw prance ;
I thought o' the days when I was but fifteen,
And skepped wi' the best upon Forbes's green.
Of aw things that is, I think thout is meast queer ;
It brings that that's by past, and sets it down here;
I see Willy as plain as I din this bit leace,
When he tuik his cwoat lappet and deeghted his feace.

The lasses aw wondered what Willy cud see

that was dark and hard-featured leyke me;
And they wondered ay mair when they talked o' my wit,
And slily telt Willy that cudn't be it.
But Willy he laughed, and he meade me his weyfe,
And wha was mair happy through aw his lang leyfe ?
It's e'en my great comfort now Willy is geane,
That he often said nae pleace was leyke his own heame.

I mind when I carried my wark to yon steyle,
Where Willy was deyken the time to beguile,
He wad fling me a daisy to put i' my breast,
And I hammered my noddle to make out a jest ;
But merry or grave, Willy often wad tell
There was nane o' the leave, that was leyke my ain sel;
And he spak what he thout, for I'd hardly a plack,
When we married, and nobbet ae gown to my back.

When the clock had struck eight, I expected him heame,
And whiles went to meet him as far as Dumleane;
Of aw hours it telt, eight was dearest to me,
And now when it streykes, there's a tear i' my e'e.
Oh, Willy! dear Willy! it never can be,
That age, time, or death can divide thee and me!
For that spot on earth that's aye dearest to me,
Is the turf that has covered my Willy frae me.*

Mrs. James Gray is better known in England as Mary Anne Browne, and under that name might have furnished the text to another melancholy chapter on Prodigies, a chapter on fine and promising girls who have become martyrs to the fond mistakes of parents and the careless flatteries of friends, and have lost the happy and healthful thoughtlessness of the child in the premature cares, the untimely aspirations, the fears, anxieties, and disappointments of the poetess. If in my humble career I can look back to any part of my own conduct

* Those who are fond of Scotch music may be glad to be reminded that the simply-pathetic song,

• What ails this heart of mine ?" is also by Miss Susanna Blamire.

with real satisfaction, it is that I have always, when a young lady has been brought to me in her character of prodigy, had the courage to give present pain in order to avert a future evil. I have always said, "wait;" certain that the more real was the talent the greater was the danger of over-exciting the youthful faculties, of over-stimulating the youthful sensibility. In Miss Mary Anne Browne's case, no advice was asked. I saw her first a fine tall girl of fourteen, already a full-fledged authoress, unmercifully lauded by some, as if verses, especially love verses, written at that age, could be anything better than clever imitations; and still more cruelly depreciated by others, as if we had a right to expect all the results of long study—of skilful practiceof observation—and of experience from one who was in everything but her quick ear and her fertile fancy still a child.

Thus brought forward, praised to the skies one day, utterly neglected the next-taken, as if a woman, into London society, and then thrown back upon a family circle in a provincial town, her health and spirits suffered ; and, if she had not been in heart and temper a girl of a thousand, she would have become soured and miserable for life. The real power was in her, however, and the depression was temporary. When taken from the unhealthy atmosphere of the stove, the plant recovered its strength and blossomed freely in the open air. When no longer stimulated by factitious applause, she wrote verses deserving of sincere admiration and enduring fame.

An accidental visit to Ireland introduced her poems to the Editor of the “Dublin University Magazine," and under his judicious encouragement she poured forth her various and earnest lays with astonishing fertility and abundance. In Ireland, too, she met the Scottish gentleman, Mr. James Gray, the nephew of the Ettrick Shepherd, whom, after some delay and difficulty, she married.

Her wedded life appears to have been singularly happy-as happy as it was brief. After a short illness she expired, while still in the bloom of womanhood (she had not yet completed her thirtythird year), and while rising daily in poetical power and poetical reputation.

Her highest literary merit was, however, not known until after her death.

Of all poetesses, George Sand herself not excepted, she seems to me to touch with the sweetest, the firmest, the most delicate hand, the difficult chords of female passion. There is a reality in her love, and in the verse that tells it, which cannot be read without a deep and tender sympathy. Beautiful and statuesque as her sketches from the antique undoubtedly are, I prefer to quote from these posthumous poems, written from her very heart of hearts, in which passion seems to burst unconsciously into poetry.

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