agricultural labourer and bethral or churchofficer until his death, which occurred May 22, 1839. His remains were interred in the churchyard of his native parish. Scott's appearance was highly intellectual and prepossessing; and an admirable portrait of him, now in the possession of his son, was painted by a distinguished artist, Mr. George Watson, to whom the poet wrote a poetical address, published in the volume issued in 1811. MARRIAGE OF THE TWEED AND TEVIOT. In days of yore the princely flowing Tweed Of all the watery nymphs toward the sea The nearing naiads, with tumultuous joy, She beats her north, still nearing more and more; RURAL CONTENT, OR THE MUIRLAND FARMER. I'm now a gude farmer, I've acres o' land, An' my heart aye loups light when I'm viewin' o't, An' I ha'e servants at my command, An' twa dainty cowts for the plowin' o't. My farm is a snug ane, lies high on a muir, The muir-cocks an' plivers aft skirl at my door, An' whan the sky low'rs I'm aye sure o' a show'r To moisten my land for the plowin' o't. Leeze me on the mailin that's fa'n to my share, It taks sax muckle bowes for the sawin' o't: I've sax braid acres for pasture, an' mair, An' a dainty bit bog for the mawin' o't. A spence an' a kitchen my mansion-house gies, I've a cantie wee wifie to daut whan I please, Twa bairnies, twa callans, that skelp owre the leas, An' they'll soon can assist at the plowin' o't. My biggin stands sweet on this south slopin' hill, An' on its green banks, on the gay simmer days, To rank amang farmers I hae muckle pride, In blue worset boots that my auld mither span I've aft been fu' vanty sin' I was a man, But now they're flung by, an' I've bought cordovan, And my wifie ne'er grudged me a shillin' o't. Sae now, whan to kirk or to market I gae, Last towmond I sell'd off four bowes o' guid bere, had sic gude luck at the sellin' o't. Now hairst-time is ower, an' a fig for the laird, Or bauld ragin' winter, wi' hail, snaw, or sleet, An' on the douf days, when loud hurricanes blaw, Till day close the scoul o' its angry e'e, SEQUEL TO THE FOREGOING. An' whan the year smiles, an' the laverocks sing, Then we'll ply the blythe hours at the sawin' o't. An' whan the birds sing on the sweet simmer morn, My new crap I'll keek at the growin' o't; Whan hares niffer love 'mang the green brairdit corn, An' dew-drops the tender blade showin' o't, On my brick o' fallow my labours I'll ply, An' view on their pasture my twa bonny kye, Till hairst-time again circle round us wi' joy, Wi' the fruits o' the sawin' an' plowin' o't. Nor need I to envy our braw gentle folks, Wha fash na their thumbs wi' the sawin' o't, Nor e'er slip their fine silken hands in the pocks, Nor foul their black shoon wi' the plowin' o't: For, pleas'd wi' the little that fortune has lent, The seasons row round us in rural content; We've ay milk an' meal, an' our laird gets his rent, An' I whistle an' sing at the plowin' o't. SYMON AND JANET.1 Surrounded wi' bent and wi' heather, Whar muircocks and plivers are rife, For mony lang towmond thegither, There lived an auld man and his wife. About the affairs o' the nation The twasome they seldom were mute; Bonaparte, the French, and invasion, Did saur in their wizens like soot. In winter, when deep are the gutters, And night's gloomy canopy spread, Auld Symon sat luntin' his cuttie, And lowsin' his buttons for bed. Auld Janet, his wife, out a gazin', To lock in the door was her care; She seein' our signals a-blazin', Came runnin' in, rivin' her hair. "O Symon, the Frenchmen are landit! Gae look, man, and slip on your shoon; Our signals I see them extendit, Like red risin' blaze o' the moon!" "What plague, the French landit!" quo' Symon, And clash gaed his pipe to the wa', "Faith, then there's be loadin' and primin'," Quo' he, if they're landit ava. "Our youngest son's in the militia, Our eldest grandson's volunteer; O' the French to be fu' o' the flesh o', I too in the ranks shall appear.' His waistcoat pouch fill'd he wi' pouther, And bang'd down his rusty auld gun; His bullets he put in the other, That he for the purpose had run. Then humpled he out in a hurry, While Janet his courage bewails, And cried out, "Dear Symon be wary!" And teughly she hang by his tails. "Let be wi' your kindness," quo' Symon, "Nor vex me wi' tears and your cares, For now to be ruled by a woman Nae laurels shall crown my gray hairs." 1 Written in 1803, during the alarm occasioned by a threatened French invasion of England.—ED. But ah! the poor fiddler soon chanced to dee, An' the poor widow cried, wi' the tear in her e'e, Alane by the hearth she disconsolate sat, Lamenting the day that she saw; An' aye as she look'd on the fiddle she grat, Fair shane the red rose on the young widow's cheek, Sae newly weel washen wi' tears, As in cam' a younker some comfort to speak, "Dear lassie!" he cried, charms, When in war's loud commotion the hostile Dane landed, Or seen in the ocean with white sail expanded, Like thee, swoll'n stream, down our steep vale that roarest, Fierce was the chieftain that harass'd them sorest. Proud stem of our ancient line, nipt while in budding, Like sweet flowers too early gem spring-fields bestudding, Our noble pine's fall'n, that waved on our mountain, Our mighty rock dash'd from the brink of our fountain. "I am smit wi' your The mighty is fallen, our hope is departed; Our lady is lonely, our halls are deserted Consent but to marry me now; The young widow blush'd, but sweet smiling she said, "Dear sir, to dissemble I hate; If we twa thegither are doom'd to be wed, He took down the fiddle, as dowie it hung, The young widow dighted her cheeks an' she sung, Now sound sleep the dead in his cauld bed o' clay, LAMENT FOR AN IRISH CHIEF. He's no more on the green hill, he has left the wide forest, Whom, sad by the lone rill, thou, loved dame, We saw in his dim eye the beam of life quiver, Loud twang'd thy bow, mighty youth, in the foray, Dread gleam'd thy brand in the proud field of And when heroes sat round in the Psalter of Tara, Loud wail for the fate from our clan that did sever, Whom we shall behold again no more for ever! ROBERT BURNS. BORN 1759 DIED 1796. The past one hundred and sixteen years has produced three great lyric poets. In France thousands of peasants and workmen, unable to read, are familiar with the lays of her gifted son Béranger; have learned them from their fathers, and will teach them to their children. Unlike his own Roi d' Yvelot there is no danger of his being forgotten or "peu connu dans l'histoire;" in crowded workshops and roadside cabarets the songs of Pierre Jean Béranger will ever continue to be sung-his memory continue to be cherished. In the Emerald Isle, so long as her lovely lakes and valleys and mountains remain, her sons will sing to their fair sisters the many matchless melodies of Thomas Moore, which will keep his memory green within their warm hearts for ever. But to Scotland, for two centuries a favourite haunt of the Muses, belongs the Ayrshire poet, "the grandest o' them a'," who died nearly fourscore years ago, before he had completed his thirty-eighth year. What may we not suppose that he would have produced had he lived till he reached the age of threescore and ten, or even the age at which Shakspere and Milton gave to the world their greatest works? What never-dying patriotic strains would have flowed from his pen had he been spared to see the victories of Nelson and Wellington, and the deeds of the Highland regiments at Waterloo! But we should be thankful for the rich and abundant legacy left to us-should thank God that he lived at all. Béranger and Moore both survived the Scottish singer for many years, yet they bequeathed to the world no more tender or patriotic poems, no sweeter or sadder strains. What writer delineates more beautifully the emotions of love and youth, of joy and sorrow, abounds in racier humour or bitterer satire, strikes nobler blows against false theology, sings weightier songs in praise of freedom, or more vividly describes the beauties of field and flower? Surely no poet except Shakspere. Nor does any other author share the same universal sympathy, or the same universal appreciation. His productions are the property and solace of mankind. All over Scotland, all over the world, indeed, wherever the names of Bruce and Wallace are known, and any heart warms to the sweet melody of Scottish song and poetry-in Australia, in Canada, in India, and throughout the United States, there were gatherings of beauty, and eloquence, and wit, assembled together on the one hundredth anniversary of his birth, to do honour to the memory of a Scottish peasant. Since the world began it may be doubted if any other poet ever received such wide-spread homage. Robert Burns, chief among Scottish poets, was born January 25th, 1759, in a small claywalled cottage on the banks of the Doon, near "Auld Ayr, wham ne'er a toun surpasses For honest men and bonnie lasses.” As a natural mark of the event, a sudden storm at the same moment swept the land; the gable wall of the house gave way, and the young mother and her new-born babe were hurried through a fearful tempest of wind and sleet to the shelter of a securer dwelling. The poet's father, a man of superior understanding and uncommon worth, was the son of a farmer in the county of Kincardine; and, owing to the reduced circumstances of his family, had removed first to the neighbourhood of Edinburgh, and afterwards to Ayrshire. In December, 1757, when he was thirty-six years of age, he wooed and married Agnes Brown, a young woman living on the banks of the Doon. To support her he leased a small piece of land which he converted into a nursery garden, and to shelter her he raised with his own hands that humble abode-still standing-where she gave birth to the poet, the eldest of six children. The garden and nursery prospered so well that he was induced to enter upon a neighbouring farm of one hundred acres. This was in 1765; but the land was hungry and sterile, the seasons |