From Thomas Campbell to Marquis of Lorne

Wha kens what heavenly music May be stirred his breast within, As the sapless leaf's faint rustlin'

Turns the sparklin' e'e aboon, While his fancy paints the Painter O' the million-tainted shaws, And the poet-spark is kindled

In his soul, amang the haws?

Oh! keepers, spare the callan'

And sweet dreams ye shall not lackFor the wee things' sake that weary

Wait the wanderer's coming back;
They hae shared the city's hardships,
And o' plenty little ken-
Let them taste in rich abundance

O' the spoils o' hill and glen.
Owre the priceless feast they'll linger,
Till their lips and teeth grow brown;
Or wi' the ruddy treasure

In their bosoms cuddle down.
Oh, there's nane the joy can measure,
That a boon sae sma' may cause!
Tears are dried and sorrow's lightened
Wi' a day amang the haws.

And ye wha's lot is coosten
Aye amang the caller air,
Wha on a gift sae common

May a thought but seldom wair,
Oh! think if Heaven had placed ye

Far frae glen and mountain stream, Where the woods are things o' fancy, And the yorlin's sang a dreamOh! think how ye would weary But to hear ae laverock sing, And to watch the matron peesweep Chase the hawk with daring wingHow wild would be your longin' For the breeze on hills that blaws! How muckle would ye venture For ae day amang the haws!

JOHN FROST.

(SUGGESTED BY THE PRATTLE OF A CHILD.)

Oh, mither, John Frost cam' yestreen,
And ower a' the garden he's been,

He's on the kail-stocks,

And my twa printed frocks That Mary left out on the green, Yestreen,

John Frost foun' them out on the green. And he's been on the trees, the auld loon, And heaps o' brown leaves shooken doon;

He's been fleein' a' nicht, Frae the dark to the licht, And missed nae a house in the toun, The auld loon— He's missed nae a house in the toun.

And, mither, he's killed every fleeNoo ane on the wa's ye'll no see;

On the windows there's nane, For the last leevin' ane Fell doun frae the rape in oor tea, Puir thing!

Just drappit doun dead in oor tea.

And, mither, the path's frostit a';
If ye gang the least fast ye jist fa'.
Oh, ye ne'er saw sic fun!
I got ae curran'-bun,
And wee Annie Kenzie got twa,
Daft wee thing;
She jist slade a wee bit and got twa.

And my auntie her een couldnae close,
For she said her auld bluid he just froze.
He cam' in below the claes,
And he nippit oor taes-
And he maist taen awa Bobby's nose,
Puir wee man;

Sure, he couldnae dae wantin' his nose.

And my uncle was chitterin' to death,
And John Frost wadna let him get breath:
And the fire wadna heat
Uncle's twa starvin' feet,
Till the soles o' his socks were burned baith,
Birslet brown,

And the reek comin' oot o' them baith.

But what brings John Frost here ava,
Wi' his frost and his cranreugh and snaw?
It's a bonnie-like thing!

He just waff't his lang wing,
And a' oor wee flowers flew awa',
Every ane;

And Ross's red dawlies and a'.

And, mither, he gangs through the street,
Just looking for weans wi' bare feet;
And he nips at their heels,
And the skin aff them peels,
And thinks it's fine fun when they greet,
The auld loon;
He nips them the mair when they greet.

Wi' his capers the folk shouldna thole. D'ye ken? He breathed in through a bole Whare a wee lassie lay,

JOHN VEITCH, LL.D., Professor of Logic and | tius and the Atomic Theory." In 1860 Dr. Rhetoric in the University of Glasgow, was Veitch was appointed to the chair of Logic and born at Peebles, Oct. 24, 1829. He was edu-Rhetoric in the University of St. Andrews, cated first at the grammar-school of his native and in 1864 he received the same appointment town, and in 1845 entered the University of in the University of Glasgow, which he now Edinburgh, where he completed the Arts cur- holds. riculum, and distinguished himself especially as a student in logic and moral philosophy. Shortly after the completion of his course the university presented him with the honorary degree of M.A., and afterwards that of LL.D. At the request of the Stewart trustees, Mr. Veitch wrote the memoir of Dugald Stewart for the new edition of that author's Collected Works, published in 1858. On the death of Sir W. Hamilton in 1856, he acted as joint editor with Dean Mansel in superintending the publication of the "Lectures on Metaphysies and Logic by Sir W. Hamilton, Bart.,' published in 1859-60; and in 1869 he published a "Memoir of Sir W. Hamilton," whose assistant he had been. He is also the author of a translation of the "Works of Descartes, with an Introductory Essay," and of "Lucre

Besides the above-mentioned works, which testify to his ripe scholarship, Professor Veitch has won a place among the poetic brotherhood by the publication in 1872 of a volume entitled Hillside Rhymes, followed in 1875 by another entitled The Tweed, and other Poems. Of the former volume a critic says:-"Let any one who cares for fine reflective poetry read for himself and judge. Besides the solid substance of thought which pervades it, he will find here and there those quick insights, those spontaneous felicities of language, which distinguish the man of natural power from the man of mere cultivation. . . . Next to an autumn day among the hills themselves, commend us to poems like these, in which so much of the finer breath and spirit of those pathetic hills is distilled into melody."

CADEMUIR.

(FROM THE TWEED.)

Dear hill! of ever-changing light and shade,
And faded battle-fame in by-gone time,
"Tis thine to charm as thou canst awe the soul.
Let me but speak thee as I've seen thee oft
On a sweet day in early June; o'erhead,

VOL. II.-G G

White streaks of wind-slashed clouds calmed on
the blue;

Around, the hill spring-green, save where the sod
Is pranked with tiny tormentil that loves
The mountain slopes, and yellow violets

Of nunlike mien, that groupe themselves afield
In gentle sisterhoods; rock-rose, dear child
Of sun-smote heights, unfolds its fluttering flowers
Of gold beside the heather dark and slow
To greet the sun; in watered hollows green
The slender cardamine, first lilac hued,
Then growing white and pure 'neath influence
Of heaven, a welcome waves to gentle winds
Now vocal with the cuckoo's echoing note.

Frail passing flowers, soft-tinted things of spring,
Sweet dawn of colour, simple grace of form!
Prelude ye are of richer bolder hues,

Of flowering thyme, the heather-bell and bloom,
And ferns of broad green leafage; yet no charm
Have these like yours, first risen from the grave
Of winter, when the spirit at your heart
Slept calm, not doubting that in sunny hours
To come, ye'd make a joy on bared steeps,
Where ceaseless winds were raving day and night,
And all was lone despair; nor any more,
As flows th' unwavering order of the world,
And autumn draws you back within the veil,
Has that same God-born spirit e'er a dread
Lest ye shall triumph o'er earth's elements,
And live your simple graceful life again,-
Symbols of faith, of innocence, and love,
Dy doubt unshaken and by fear unpaled!

THE CLOUD-BERRY.
(FROM ON THE SCRAPE.)

Around me cluster quaint cloud-berry flowers,
That love the moist slopes of the highest tops,
Pale white, and delicate, and beautiful,
Yet lowly growing 'mid the black peat moss,--
No life with darker root and fairer bloom:
As if the hand of God had secret wrought
Amid the peaty chaos and decay

Of long deep buried years, and from the moss
Entombed, unshaped, unsunned, and colourless,
Set free a form of beauty rare and bright,
To typify the glory and the grace
Which from the dust of death He will awake,
In course of time, on Resurrection morn!

THE HART OF MOSSFENNAN.

"They hunted it up, they hunted it doun,
They hunted it in by Mossfennan toun,
And aye they gie'd it another turn,
Round by the links of the Logan Burn.”
Old Ballad.

'Neath Powmood Craig the hart was born,
And thence in the dawn of a summer morn,
By startled mother's side as it lay,
"Twas brought by a youth for his sweetheart's
play.

She was a blue-eyed maiden fair,
Of stately mien and flaxen hair,
The daughter meet of an olden race,
Remote as a flower in a moorland place,
That blooms to all the great world lost,
And yet once seen is prized the most,-
Pure wood nymph she of Caledon,
Who loved all creatures wild and lone.

The gift to her was priceless, dear,
Since the giver, laid on a plaited bier,
Was borne away from a far-off field,
With a spotless name, with a blood-stained
shield.

To her of an eve the creature bent,
While to him a simple grace she lent,
As she comely wreathed his noble head,
And decked his brow with the heather red.
Fond she gazed on those lustrous eyes
That met her look with a sweet surprise
At a face so tender, sad, and fair;
She thought they read her soul's despair;
And through her frame strange thrill would go,
As she caught the chequer'd pass and flow
Of trembling motions in their great deeps,
As light and shade o'er the mountain-steeps.

Far o'er the moors on a summer's day
He'd pass and roam and freely stray;
But ever, as shade of evening fell,
He turned to the home he loved so well.
His heart yearned aye to the lonely wild,
While his love was that of a human child,-
That set a bound to his nature free,-
For the maiden's face on Mossfennan Lce.

The hunters are out this summer morn,
They sweep the moors by hag and burn,
By rock and crag, each high resort,
For dear they love their noble sport.
They started a fee at Stanhope Head,
And down the glen the raches sped,
Fire-flauchts lanced up from each horse's side,
For the galling spur was prompt to chide.

Round he ran by Hopcarton Stell,
The spotted hounds pressed on him fell;
I' the haugh he took the Tweed at the wide,
Then tossed his horns on Mossfennan side.
Still the cruel hounds are on his track,
In his ear the yell of the hurrying pack,
Fain to Mossfennan Tower he would turn,
But the chace is hot,-to the hill by the burn.

They hunted him high, they hunted him low,
They hunted him up by the mossy flow;
The lee-long day, from early morn,
The Hopes rung loud with bouts of the horn.

No bloom of heather brae them stayed,
No birk-tree quiver or sheen of glade,
No touch of nature bent their will,
In hot blood onward, onward still.

Powmood, that ever in clear or mist,
In fray or hunt the foremost pressed,
Now speeding keen as north-west wind,
Late i' the day left all behind;
Save Dreva's Laird, ne'er boding good,
Wide was he famed for a reiver rude,-
And hand that took kindly aye to blood,-
Left blacken'd walls where the homestead stood.

They hunted the hart these two alone,
Till the shadows lay in the afternoon;
Where brae was stey and bank was steep,
The noble fee fell in a gallant leap.

They blew the mort on the Wormhill Head,
Where sore he sighed and then lay dead!
Oh! why not let the creature be,
Bear his noble head o'er hill and lee,-
That ate but the wild roots, drank o' the spring,
And roamed the moor a seemly thing,-
Joyed in the sun, flashed fleet in the storm,
Free in the grace of his God-given form!

The merry sport of the day is o'er;
I' the gloamin' at the old tower door,
No gentle creature is there to greet
Her eyes that seek him, sad and sweet,-
Oh! with love's last link 'tis sore to part,
And feel but the void of the aching heart!

ALEXANDER SMITH.

BORN 1830-DIED 1867.

ALEXANDER SMITH was a native of Kilmarnock, where he was born December 31, 1830. His father was by trade a pattern-designer; his mother, whose name was Murray, came of a good Highland family. His early education was received at a Kilmarnock school, and he so distinguished himself for zeal and efficiency in his studies that it was decided he should be trained for the ministry. A severe illness, however, rendered it advisable that this idea should be abandoned; and so Alexander became a pattern-designer, obtaining with his father employment from a lace manufacturer in Glasgow, to which city the family had removed.

While patiently working at his business, he felt the promptings of genius, and for a time lived a life of divided allegiance to his profession on the one hand, and literature on the other.

"He was one

Who could not help it, for it was his nature
To blossom into song, as 'tis a tree's
To leaf itself in April."

Some of his sweetest lyrics were composed while he was employed designing patterns for lace collars. These pieces first saw the light in the Glasgow Citizen, where so many young Scottish poets have been developed.

In 1853 Smith issued a volume of poems,

Frail passing flowers, soft-tinted things of spring,

Sweet dawn of colour, simple grace of form!
Prelude ye are of richer bolder hues,

THE CLOUD-BERRY.
(FROM ON THE SCRAPE.)

Around me cluster quaint cloud-berry flowers,
That love the moist slopes of the highest tops,
Pale white, and delicate, and beautiful,
Yet lowly growing 'mid the black peat moss,—
No life with darker root and fairer bloom:
As if the hand of God had secret wrought
Amid the peaty chaos and decay

THE HART OF MOSSFENNAN.

"They hunted it up, they hunted it doun, They hunted it in by Mossfennan toun, And aye they gie'd it another turn, Round by the links of the Logan Burn." Old Ballad. 'Neath Powmood Craig the hart was born, And thence in the dawn of a summer morn, By startled mother's side as it lay, "Twas brought by a youth for his sweetheart's play.

The gift to her was priceless, dear,
Since the giver, laid on a plaited bier,
Was borne away from a far-off field,
With a spotless name, with a blood-stained
shield.

Far o'er the moors on a summer's day
He'd pass and roam and freely stray;
But ever, as shade of evening fell,

He turned to the home he loved so well.
His heart yearned aye to the lonely wild,
While his love was that of a human child,-
That set a bound to his nature free,-
For the maiden's face on Mossfennan Lee.

They hunted him high, they hunted him low,
They hunted him up by the mossy flow;
The lee-long day, from early morn,
The Hopes rung loud with bouts of the horn.

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