Never a word said bonnye Jeanye Roole,
Butte, shepherd, lette us gange;
And never mair, at a Gloamyne Buchte,
Wald she singe another sange.

SAINT ULLIN'S PILGRIM.

"Remain with us, thou gentle guest,
Remain with us, till morning stay:
The daylight's dying in the west,
And long and lonesome is the way.

"My sons to wake the deer are gone

In far Glen Affric's wild-wood glade; Flora and I are left alone,

Give us thy company, dear maid.

"Think not that covert guile doth lie

Disguised in garb of fair good-will, The name of hospitality

Is sacred on the Highland hill.

"Wert thou the daughter of my foe,
As thou'rt the Saxon stranger's child,
I would not, could not let thee go
To be benighted in the wild.

"Flora, my darling, cheer prepare,

And bid the maid our welcome prove; Old Kenneth of the snowy hair

Is young to see his daughter's love."

"Entreat me not, thou good old man,"

With falt ring tongue the maid replied, "I must pursue my wayward plan,— I may not, cannot here abide."

"Ah! maiden, wayward sure thou art, And if thou must, thou must be gone; Yet was it never Kenneth's part

To send the helpless forth alone.

"All-blighting Time hath me subdued,

Mine eyes are glazed and dim of ken, The way is rugged, waste and rudeGlenelchaig is a dreary glen.

"Yet Flora will her father aid,

So speaks that bright expressive eye;Shall we desert the stranger maid,

When other aid none else is nigh?"

"O kind old man," the maiden spoke,
"All human aid I must forego,
My sacred vow must not be broke-

The vow the living must not know.

"Farewell! entreat not, O! farewell." So said, she sped away in haste; Deep, deep the gloom of evening fell, And heaven and earth were all a waste. "Abate thy grief, thou white-hair'd man, And, lovely Flora, cease to weep; For Heaven the heart can truly scan, And doth of love remembrance keep. "For He who is our trust and might, And who is with His own alway, As nigh us is in shades of night,

As in the brightest beams of day.
"His presence shield the maiden's sonl!”-
The gloom now dark and darker hung;
With wild, continuous, fearful howl
Each glen, each cliff, each cavern rung.
Yet held she on-avaunt, dismay!-

O'er sparry ledge and rolling stone;
Rude, dark, and toilsome was the way,
And all untrod, yet held she on.

Yet held she on, by hill and stream,

Thro' tearing brakes and sinking swamps,
While savage eyes around her gleam
Like half-extinguished cavern lamps.

She heard the Glomah, ever dark,

Like wakening thunder deeply moan; And louder heard the howl and bark, With scream, and hiss, and shriek, and groan.

She came beneath that fatal rock

Where horror lower'd in tenfold wrath-
A hamlet here,' the mountain broke,
And life was overwhelmed in death.
She deem'd she heard the bursting crash,
The agonized and stifled shriek;
Her senses reel, her ear-drums dash,
Her eyeballs strain well nigh to break.

Yet sped she on, her heart beat high,
So loud it did itself alarm;

She crossed at length the Altondye,

Then lighter grew her thoughts of harm.

Still sped she on by rock and bush,

Her tender limbs much grievance found; She heard the streams of Fahda rush,

And hollow tongues were whispering round.

1 There is a pass in Glenelchaig nearly blocked up with detached pieces of rock. Here, says tradition, was once a village, and the rock above giving way in the night buried it and all its inhabitants.-ED.

Kilullin1 met her sight at length

Corpse candles burnt with livid flameNow Heaven assist the maiden's strength, "Tis much to bear for mortal frame.

As near'd she to the camp of death,

The lights danced in the yawning blast, And sheeted spectres crossed her path, All gibbering ghastly as they pass'd.

Yet high resolve could nothing harm,

Sped on the maiden free of scathe; Night's clammy dews fell thick and warm,

The sulph'ry air was hot to breathe.

She reached at length Saint Ullin's stone,
Composed in effort thereon sate;
Thou Power that yet hast led her on,
Enstrengthen her the end to wait!

She knelt her by the slumbering saint,
Viper and toad around her crawl;
Yet swerv'd she not-her soul grew faint,
In prayer her lips did move-'twas all.

A languor chilled the living stream,

She sunk upon the mould of death: Say did she sleep as those who dream,

Or sleep as those who slept beneath?

Her sleep was not that mortal night
In which the spirit leaves the clay;
'Twas wak'ning to a vision bright
Of light and everlasting day.

'Twas wak'ning in another sphere,

A fairer, purer, holier, higher; Where all is eye, where all is ear,

Where all is gratified desire.

Burst on her sight that world of bliss,
Where woe and death may never come;
She heard the hymns of Paradise,
Where not a tuneful breeze is dumb.

She saw Life's river flowing wide,

With Love and Mercy on the brim, Compared unto its crystal tide

The splendour of our sun was dim.

And on that tide were floating isles,

With bowers of ever-verdant green, Where sate beneath th' eternal smiles Those who on earth had faithful been.

She heard the hallelujahs rise

From those who stood before the throne;

1 Kilullin, literally the burying-place of Ullan.-ED.

OH, WILL YE WALK? "Oh, will ye walk the wood wi' me? Oh, will ye walk the green? Or will ye sit within mine arms, My ain kind Jean?"

"It's I'll not walk the wood wi' thee, Nor yet will I the green; And as for sitting in your arms, It's what I dinna mean.' "Oh! slighted love is ill to thole,

And weel may I compleen;
But since that better mayna be,
I e'en maun thol't for Jean."

"Gang up to May o' Mistycleugh,
Ye saw her late yestreen;
Ye'll find in her a lightsome love
Ye winna find in Jean."

"Wi' bonny May o' Mistycleugh I carena to be seen;

Her lightsome love I'd freely gie For half a blink frae Jean."

"Gang down to Madge o' Miry faulds, I ken for her ye green;

Wi' her ye'll get a purse o' gowdYe'll naething get wi' Jean."

"For doity Madge o' Miryfaulds I dinna care a preen;

The purse o' gowd I weel could want, If I could hae my Jean."

"Oh yes! I'll walk the wood wi' thee;
Oh yes! I'll walk the green;
But first ye'll meet me at the kirk,
And mak' me aye your Jean."

WILLIAM PENNEY, although not one of the great masters of song, is entitled to a niche in our gallery as the author of numerous meritorious religious poems. He was the son of Mr. William Penney, a respectable Glasgow merchant, and was born in that city Aug. 8, 1801. He was educated at the university there, and selecting the profession of the law, he passed advocate at the age of twenty-three. His talents and industry insured him success, and in 1858 he was appointed a judge of the Court of Session, taking the title of Lord Kinloch. His first publication, entitled The Circle of Christian Doctrine, appeared in 1861, followed in 1863 by "Time's Treasure, or Devout Thoughts for Every Day in the Year, expressed in verse, by Lord Kinloch." “I offer this volume," he remarks in the pre

face, "as a collection of thoughts rather than poems. My design is simply to present, day by day, a brief exercise of devout reflection, which, actually performed by one Christian, may be fitly repeated by others: expressed in that form of language, which, as it is peculiarly appropriate to the divine praise, is on that account specially fitted to be the vehicle of religious meditation. The object of the volume is not an exhibition of poetic fancy, but an expression of Christian life." Time's Treasure has been favourably received, and has passed through four editions. Lord Kinloch's other works are Faith's Jewels, presented in Verse; Studies for Sunday Evening; Readings in Holy Writ; and Devout Moments: a selection from Time's Treasure. He died at Hartrigge, near | Jedburgh, Oct. 30, 1872.

I gathered, Lord, of flowers the fairest, For thee to twine;

I hoarded gems, of hue the rarest,

To make them thine:

But thou mine offer so preventedst,
By gift from thee, beyond my thought,
That, whilst I took what thou presentedst,
I was ashamed to give thee ought.

My gifts appeared so poor and meagre,

Matched with thy boon,

I straightway grew to hide them eager; But thou, full soon,"

render

Of all thou from my grace hast gained?" Then all I gave thee; and the tender

From thine acceptance worth obtained.

Be thou, amidst the darkness, free from dread; And find "Tis finished," may at last be said.

The earthquake, deemed thy rock to undermine, Serves but to rend the veil, which masks the shrine;

And make the holiest of holies thine.

A LOST DAY.

Say not thou hast lost a day,

If, amidst its weary hours, Gloomy thoughts, and flagging powers, Thou hast found that thou could'st pray.

By a single earnest prayer,

Thou may'st much of work have done; Much of wealth and progress won, Yielded not by toil and care.

To thy dear ones, then embraced,
Thou may'st wondrous help have lent;
Message full of love have sent;
Given a fortune free from waste.

If one thought was upward thrown, 'Twas to eyes in heaven a sign; 'Twas to heavenly treasures coin; 'Twas in house above a stone.

In God's book of weal and crime,

Many days, in which thou thought'st Thou full well and hardly wrought'st, Bear the blot of idle time:

Whilst the day, to which may fall

One short prayer alone for mark, Writ may be, midst bright and dark, As thy gainfullest of all.

DYING IN DARKNESS.

The Saviour died in darkness; thus he gave
A thought from sinking to despair to save,
When gloom surrounds the entrance to the
grave.

The Saviour bowed his head; and meekly went
To death, 'midst all its woes and pangs content,
To teach thee how to meet its worst event.

Thy Saviour felt forsaken, as he died: No marvel, if with such a fear be tried The sinner, who with him is crucified.

DESIRE OF DEATH.

When strongest my desire of death,
I least am fit to die;

Because the will, which keeps my breath,
I then would fain deny.

Why would the servant, ere the time,
Enter the Master's room,

Who may, as for a heedless crime,
To longer waiting doom?

The angel, who would change his place,
For work or watch ordained,

God might well exile from his face,
As one with folly stained.

'Tis the same course, the saint above,
And earthly fellow suits;
To serve and sing, to look and love,
And bring the Lord his fruits.

I must, by longer stay on earth,
Better for heaven prepare:

I may not go, with such a dearth
Of graces needful there.