Souls that disdain the murderous tongue of Fame, And strength to make the sturdiest of them tame; Grant this, ye powers! to dominies distrest, Their sharp-tailed hickories will do the rest.
I wha stand here in this bare scowry coat,
Was ance a packman, worth mony a groat;
I've carried packs as big's your meikle table;
I've scarted pats and sleepit in a stable:
Sax pounds I wadna for my pack ance taen,
And I could bauldly brag 'twas a' mine ain.
Ay! thae were days indeed that gar'd me hope,
Aiblins, through time to warsle up a shop;
And as a wife aye in my noddle ran,
I kenn'd my Kate wad grapple at me than.
Oh, Kate was past compare! sic cheeks! sic een!
Sic smiling looks! were never, never seen.
Dear, dear I lo'ed her, and whene'er we met,
Pleaded to have the bridal day but set;
Stapped her pouches fu' o' preens and laces,
And thought myself weel paid wi' twa three
kisses:
Yet still she put it aff frae day to day,
And aften kindly in my lug would say,
"Ae half-year langer's no nae unco stop,
We'll marry then, and syne set up a shop."
Oh, sir, but lasses' words are saft and fair,
They soothe our griefs and banish ilka care:
Wha wadna toil to please the lass he loes!
A lover true minds this in all he does.
Finding her mind was thus sae firmly bent,
And that I couldna get her to relent,
There was nought left but quietly to resign,
To heeze my pack for ae lang, hard campaign;
And as the Highlands was the place for meat,
I ventured there in spite o' wind and weet.
Cauld now the winter blew, and deep the snaw
For three hale days incessantly did fa';
Far in a muir, amang the whirling drift,
Where nought was seen but mountains and the
I lost my road, and wander'd mony a mile,
Maist dead wi' hunger, cauld, and fright, and toil.
Thus wandering, east or west, I kenned na where,
My mind o'ercome wi' gloom and black despair,
Wi' a fell ringe I plunged at once, forsooth,
Down through a wreath o' snaw up to my mouth-
Clean ower my head my precious wallet flew,
But whar it gaed, Lord kens-I never knew!
What great misfortunes are poured down on some!
I thought my fearfu' hinder-end was come!
Wi' grief and sorrow was my saul owercast,
1 Recited by the author, at the Pantheon, Edinburgh, in a debate on the question, "Whether is disappointment in love or the loss of fortune hardest to bear?"
Ilk breath I drew was like to be my last;
For aye the mair I warsled roun' and roun',
I fand mysel aye stick the deeper down;
Till ance, at length, wi' a prodigious pull,
I drew my puir cauld carcass frae the hole.
Lang, lang I sought and graped for my pack,
Till night and hunger forced me to come back.
For three lang hours I wandered up and down,
Till chance at last conveyed me to a town;
There, wi' a trembling hand, I wrote my Kate
A sad account of a' my luckless fate,
But bade her aye be kind, and no despair,
Since life was left, I soon would gather mair,
Wi' whilk I hoped, within a towmont's date
To be at hame, and share it a' wi' Kate.
Fool that I was! how little did I think
That love would soon be lost for faut o' clink!
The loss o' fair-won wealth, though hard to bear,
Afore this-ne'er had power to force a tear.
I trusted time would bring things round again,
And Kate, dear Kate! would then be a' mine ain:
Consoled my mind in hopes o' better luck-
But, oh! what sad reverse! how thunderstruck!
When ae black day brought word frae Rab my
brither,
That-Kate was cried and married on anither!
Though a' my friends, and ilka comrade sweet,
At ance had drapped cauld dead at my feet;
Or though I'd heard the last day's dreadful ca',
Nae deeper horror ower my heart could fa';
I cursed mysel, I cursed my luckless fate,
And grat-and sabbing cried, Oh Kate! oh Kate!
Frae that day forth I never mair did weel,
But drank, and ran head foremost to the deil!
My siller vanished, far frae hame I pined,
But Kate for ever ran across my mind:
In her were a' my hopes-these hopes were vain,
And now I'll never see her like again.
Hech but its awfu' like to rise up here,
Where sic a sight o' learned folks' pows appear!
Sae mony piercing een a' fixed on ane
Is maist enough to freeze me to a stane!
But it's a mercy-mony thanks to fate,
Pedlars are poor, but unco seldom blate.
(Speaking to the President.)
This question, sir, has been right well disputed, And meikle weel-a-wat's been said about it;
? Delivered by the author in the Pantheon, Edinburgh, in a debate on the question, "Whether is diffi dence or the allurements of pleasure the greatest bar to the progress in knowledge?"
Shall aid thy feeble gait, or gently stroke
Thy sun-bleach'd head and downy cheek.
But go, a mother waits thy homeward steps;
In vain her eyes dwell on the sacred page,-
Her thoughts are in the grave; 'tis thou alone,
Her first-born child, canst rouse that statue gaze
Of woe profound. Haste to the widow'd arms;
Look with thy father's look, speak with his
voice,
And melt a heart that else will break with grief.
TO A REDBREAST THAT FLEW IN AT MY WINDOW.
From snowy plains and icy sprays, From moonless nights and sunless days, Welcome, poor bird! I'll cherish thee; I love thee, for thou trustest me. Thrice welcome, helpless, panting guest! Fondly I'll warm thee in my breast: How quick thy little heart is beating! As if its brother flutterer greeting. Thou need'st not dread a captive's doom; No! freely flutter-round my room;
Perch on my lute's remaining string,
And sweetly of sweet summer sing.
That note, that summer note, I know;
It wakes at once, and soothes my woe;
I see those woods, I see that stream,
I see, ah, still prolong the dream!
Still with thy song those scenes renew,
Though through my tears they reach my view.
No more now, at my lonely meal,
While thou art by, alone I'll feel;
For soon, devoid of all distrust,
Thou'lt nibbling share my humble crust;
Or on my finger, pert and spruce,
Thou'lt learn to sip the sparkling juice;
And when (our short collation o'er)
Some favourite volume I explore,
Be't work of poet or of sage,
Safe thou shalt hop across the page;
Uncheck'd, shalt flit o'er Virgil's groves,
Or flutter 'mid Tibullus' loves.
Thus, heedless of the raving blast,
Thou'lt dwell with me till winter's past;
And when the primrose tells 'tis spring,
And when the thrush begins to sing,
Soon as I hear the woodland song,
Freed, thou shalt join the vocal throng.
MRS. DUGALD STEWART, the second wife of the celebrated professor of moral philosophy in the University of Edinburgh, was born in the year 1765. Her maiden name was Helen D'Arcy Cranstoun, third daughter of the Hon. George Cranstoun, youngest son of William, fifth Lord Cranstoun. She became the wife of Dugald Stewart-a benevolent, upright, and liberal man of undoubted talent-one of the most polished writers of his day, and as fascinating a teacher as ever occupied a university chair— | July 26, 1790. Having survived her distinguished husband ten years, she died at Warriston House, in the neighbourhood of Edinburgh, July 28, 1838. Mrs. Stewart was a sister of the celebrated Countess Purgstall, the subject of Capt. Basil Hall's Schloss Hainfeld. Hew Ainslie, the venerable Scottish poet, who lived under her roof while Lord Palmerston
RETURNING SPRING, WITH GLADSOME RAY.
Returning spring, with gladsome ray, Adorns the earth and smooths the deep: All nature smiles, serene and gay,
It smiles, and yet, alas! I weep.
But why, why flows the sudden tear,
Since Heaven such precious boons has lent, The lives of those who life endear,
And, though scarce competence, content?
Sure, when no other bliss was mine
Than that which still kind Heaven bestows.
Yet then could peace and hope combine
To promise joy and give repose.
Then have I wander'd o'er the plain,
And blessed each flower that met my view: Thought Fancy's power would ever reign, And Nature's charms be ever new.
I fondly thought where Virtue dwelt
That happy bosom knew no ill-
That those who scorn'd me, time would melt,
And those I loved be faultless still.
Enchanting dreams! kind was your art
That bliss bestow'd without alloy;
Or if soft sadness claim'd a part,
'Twas sadness sweeter still than joy.
Oh! whence the change that now alarms,
Fills this sad heart and tearful eye,
And conquers the once powerful charms
Of youth, of hope, of novelty?
'Tis sad Experience, fatal power!
That clouds the once illumined sky, That darkens life's meridian hour,
And bids each fairy vision fly.
She paints the scene-how different far
From that which youthful fancy drew!
Shows joy and freedom oft at war,
Our woes increased, our comforts few.
And when, perhaps, on some loved friend
Our treasured fondness we bestow,
Oh! can she not, with ruthless hand,
Change even that friend into a foe?
See in her train cold Foresight move,
Shunning the rose to 'scape the thorn;
And Prudence every fear approve,
And Pity harden into scorn!
The glowing tints of Fancy fade,
Life's distant prospects charm no more;
Alas! are all my hopes betray'd?
Can nought my happiness restore?
Relentless power! at length be just,
Thy better skill alone impart;
Give Caution, but withhold Distrust,
And guard, but harden not, my heart!
THE TEARS I SHED MUST EVER FALL.
The tears I shed must ever fall!
I weep not for an absent swain, For time may happier hours recall, And parted lovers meet again.
I weep not for the silent dead.
Their pains are past, their sorrows o'er, And those they loved their steps shall tread, And death shall join to part no more.
Though boundless oceans roll between,
If certain that his heart is near,
A conscious transport glads each scene,
Soft is the sigh and sweet the tear.
E'en when by death's cold hand removed,
We mourn the tenant of the tomb,
To think that e'en in death he loved,
Can gild the horrors of the gloom.
But bitter, bitter are the tears
Of her who slighted love bewails;
No hope her dreary prospect cheers,
No pleasing melancholy hails.
Hers are the pangs of wounded pride,
Of blasted hope, of wither'd joy;
The flattering veil is rent aside,
The flame of love burns to destroy.
In vain does memory renew
The hours once tinged in transport's dye; The sad reverse soon starts to view, And turns the past to agony.
1 Scott made use of two stanzas of this song, which has been called "The Song of Genius," as a motto for a chapter of The Talisman, with the addition of the following lines-his own composition:
"But worse than absence, worse than death,
She wept her lover's sullied fame,
And, fired with all the pride of birth,
She wept a soldier's injured name."-Ed.
Chiels, that precisely to the point can speak, And gallop o'er lang blauds of kittle Greek, Hae sent frae ilka side their sharp opinion, And peeled it up as ane wad peel an ingon1.
I winna plague you lang wi' my poor spale, But only crave your patience to a tale:
By which ye'll ken on whatna side I'm stanin' As I perceive your hindmost minute's rinnin'.
There lived in Fife an auld, stout, worldly chiel,
Wha's stomach ken'd nae fare but milk and meal;
A wife he had, I think they ca'd her Bell,
And twa big sons, amaist as heigh's himsel'.
Rab was a gleg, smart cock, with powdered pash;
Ringan, a slow, feared, bashfu', simple hash.
Baith to the college gaed. At first spruce Rab
At Greek and Latin grew a very dab:
He beat a' round about him, fair and clean,
And ilk ane courted him to be their frien';
Frae house to house they harled him to dinner,
But cursed poor Ringan for a hum-drum sinner.
Rab talked now in sic a lofty strain,
As though braid Scotland had been a' his ain;
He ca'd the kirk the church, the yirth the globe,
And changed his name, forsooth, frae Rab to Bob.
Whare'er ye met him flourishing his rung,
The haill discourse was murdered wi' his tongue.
On friends and faes wi' impudence he set,
And rammed his nose in everything he met.
The college now to Rab grew douf and dull,
He scorned wi' books to stupify his skull:
Sae meikle learning wi' sae little pride,
Soon gained the love o' a' the kintra side;
And Death, at that time, happening to nip aff
The parish minister-a poor, dull calf,
Ringan was sought-he couldna' say them nay,
And there he's preaching at this very day.
Now, Mr. President, I think 'tis plain,
That youthfu' diffidence is certain gain.
Instead of blocking up the road to knowledge,
It guides alike, in commerce or at college;
Struggles the bursts of passion to control,
Feeds all the finer feelings of the soul;
Defies the deep-laid stratagems of guile,
And gives even innocence a sweeter smile;
Ennobles all the little worth we have,
And shields our virtue even to the grave.
How vast the difference, then, between the twain,
Since pleasure ever is pursued by pain.
Pleasure's a syren, with inviting arms,
Sweet is her voice and powerful are her charms;
Lured by her call we tread her flowery ground,
Joy wings our steps and music warbles round,
Lulled in her arms we lose the flying hours,
And lie embosomed 'midst her blooming bowers,
Till-armed with death, she watches our undoing,
Stabs while she sings, and triumphs in our ruin.
Green meadows and brown-furrowed fields reappearing,
But whirled to plays and balls, and sic like places, When winter's cold tempests and winds are no
And roared awa at fairs and kintra races;
Sent hame for siller frae his mother Bell,
And caft a horse, and rade a race himsel';
Drank day and night, and syne, when mortal fu',
Rowed on the floor, and snored like ony sow;
Lost a' his siller wi' some gambling sparks,
And pawned, for punch, his Bible and his sarks;
Till driven at last to own he had eneugh,
Gaed hame a' rags to haud his father's plough.
Poor hum-drum Ringan played anither part,
For Ringan wanted neither wit nor ar;
Of mony a far-aff place he kent the gate;
Was deep, deep learned, but unco, unco blate.
He kend how mony mile 'twas to the moon,
How mony rake wad lave the ocean toom;
Where a' the swallows gaed in time of snaw;
What gars the thunders roar, and tempests blaw;
Where lumps o' siller grow aneath the grun';
How a' this yirth rows round about the sun;
In short, on books sae meikle time he spent,
Ye couldna' speak o' aught, but Ringan kent.
1 The question had been spoken upon both sides before this tale was recited, which was the last opinion given on the debate.
The fishermen hauling their shad to the shore, And cloud-cleaving geese to the lakes are a
When first the lone butterfly flits on the wing, When red grows the maple, so fresh and so
Oh then comes the blue-bird, the herald of spring, And hails with his warblings the charms of the
He flits through the orchard, he visits each tree, | While spring's lovely season, soft, dewy, and The red glowing peach, and the apple's sweet
He snaps up destroyers whatever they be,
And seizes the caitiffs that lurk in their bosoms; He draws the vile grub from the corn it devours, The worms from their webs where they riot and welter,
His song and his services freely are ours,
And all that he asks is, in summer, a shelter.
The ploughman is pleased when he gleans in his train,
Now searching the furrows, now mounting to cheer him;
The gardener delights in his sweet simple strain, And leans on his spade to survey and to hear him;
The slow lingering schoolboys forget they'll be chid,
While gazing intent as he warbles before them, In mantle of sky-blue and bosom so red,
That each little loiterer seems to adore him.
When all the gay scenes of the summer are o'er,
And autumn slow enters so silent and sallow,
And millions of warblers, that charmed us before,
Have fled in the tread of the sun-seeking swal-
low;
The blue-bird, forsaken, yet true to his home,
Still lingers, and looks for a milder to-morrow,
Till forced by the horrors of winter to roam,
He sings the adieu in a lone note of sorrow.
The green face of earth, and the pure blue of
heaven,
Or love's native music have influence to charm,
Or sympathy's glow to our feelings are given-
Still dear to each bosom the blue-bird shall be;
His voice, like the shrilling of hope, is a trea-
For through bleakest storms, if a calm he but
He comes to remind us of sunshine and plea
Dark lowers the night o'er the wide stormy main,
Till mild rosy morning rise cheerful again;
Alas! morn returns to revisit the shore,
But Connel returns to his Flora no more.
For see, on yon mountain, the dark cloud of death,
O'er Connel's lone cottage, lies low on the heath;
While bloody and pale, on a far distant shore,
He lies, to return to his Flora no more.
Ye light fleeting spirits, that glide o'er the steep,
Oh, would ye but waft me across the wild deep!
There fearless I'd mix in the battle's loud roar,
I'd die with my Connel, and leave him no more.
CAROLINA OLIPHANT, a Christian lady alike | named in honour of Prince Charles Edward, lovely in mind and person, who was from her attended the unfortunate Stuart during his great beauty known in her native district as disastrous campaign of 1745-46; and his wife "The Flower of Strathearn," was born at the indicated her sympathy in the cause by cutting family mansion of Gask, in the county of off a lock of the Prince's hair, on the occasion Perth, July 16, 1766. The Oliphants of Gask of his accepting their hospitality. The souwere cadets of the formerly noble house of venir is still preserved in the family. Our Oliphant, whose ancestor, Sir William of Aber-authoress has thus celebrated the incident in dalgie, acquired distinction in the early part her song of "The Auld House:"
of the fourteenth century, by defending the castle of Stirling against a formidable siege. carried on under the eyes of Edward I. of England. Her ancestors were devoted Jacobites. The paternal grandfather of Carolina,
"The leddy too, sae genty,
There shelter'd Scotland's heir,
An' clipt a lock wi' her ain hand
Frae his lang yellow hair."
Carolina Oliphant, whose beauty was equalled
|