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Bid them cease- -or rather hasten

To the churches, every one; There to pray to Mary Mother, And to her anointed Son, That the thunderbolt above us

May not fall in ruin yet;

That in fire and blood and rapine
Scotland's glory may not set.
Let them pray,-for never women
Stood in need of such a prayer!—
England's yeomen shall not find them
Clinging to the altars there.

No! if we are doomed to perish,
Man and maiden, let us fall,

And a common gulf of ruin
Open wide to whelm us all!

Never shall the ruthless spoiler
Lay his hot insulting hand
On the sisters of our heroes,

Whilst we bear a torch or brand!

Up! and rouse ye, then, my brothers-
But when next ye hear the bell
Sounding forth the sullen summons
That may be our funeral knell,
Once more let us meet together,
Once more see each other's face;
Then, like men that need not tremble,
Go to our appointed place.

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God, our Father, will not fail us
In that last tremendous hour,-
If all other bulwarks crumble,

He will be our strength and tower:
Though the ramparts rock beneath us,
And the walls go crashing down,
Though the roar of conflagration
Bellow o'er the sinking town;
There is yet one place of shelter,
Where the foeman cannot come,
Where the summons never sounded
Of the trumpet or the drum.
There again we'll meet our children,
Who, on Flodden's trampled sod,
For their king and for their country
Rendered up their souls to God.
There shall we find rest and refuge,

With our dear departed brave;

And the ashes of the city

Be our universal grave!"

WILLIAM THOM.

"THE Rhymes and Recollections of a Hand-loom Weaver, by William Thom, of Inverary," published about ten years ago, comprise some pieces worthy the genius of Burns. His history is a very remarkable one, which our space will only allow us to glance at. He was a weaver, as the title of his poems indicate, and lived in the little village of Newtyle, near Cupar Angus. The failure of a great commercial house in America, silenced, in one week, 6000 looms in Scotland, and spread dismay through the whole country. Thom's earnings had been always small, and out of employment with a family to maintain, he was soon at his wit's end to obtain bread. At a pawnbroker's shop he exchanged the only remaining article of value he had for ten shillings, four of which he expended in books, that he hoped to sell at a profit, and four in artioles for his wife to sell, while he retained two for current expenses. Locking up his house, the whole family, consisting of himself, wife, and four children, set forth upon the world to seek a living. They succeeded ill in their attempts at trade, and were soon reduced to absolute starvation. One night about nine o'clock, after a hard day's travel, they found themselves without any means to obtain a night's lodging. Leaving his family on the roadside, Thom applied at several places for shelter, but no one would take them in. Of one of these applications the poet says, "I pleaded the infancy of my family and the lateness of the hour, but 'No, no,' was the cruel reply. I returned to my family by the wayside. They had crept closer together, and all, except the mother, was fast asleep. 'Oh, Willie, Willie, what keepit ye?' inquired the trembling woman; 'I'm dootfu o' Jeanie,' she added; 'is na she waesome like? Let's in frae the cauld.' 'We've nae way to gang lass,' said I, 'whate'er come o' us. Your folk winna hae us.' Few more

words passed. I drew her mantle over the wet and chilled sleepers, and sat down beside them." At length a poor man passing by took pity upon them, and though all the accommodation he could offer was an outhouse, they were glad to avail themselves of it. We again quote his own narrative: "I think it must have been between three and four o'clock, when Jean (his wife) awakened me. Oh, that scream! I think I hear it now. The other children, startled from sleep, joined in frightful wail over their dead sister. Our poor Jeanie had, unobserved by us, sunk, during the night, under the effects of the exposure of the preceding evening, following, as it did, a long course of hardship, too great to be borne by a young frame. I proceeded to awaken the people in the house, who entered at once into our feelings, and did everything which Christian kindness could dictate as proper to be done on the occasion. In an obscure corner of Kinnaird churchyard lies our favorite, little Jeanie.” For some months his hardships continued, and his devoted wife sank under the privations to which she was exposed.

This was a

severe blow, and affected him deeply. During this period of distress and suffering, he had much leisure time, part of which, as a kind of relief from its tedium, he spent in writing verses. One of these pieces he sent to the Aberdeen Herald, which at once attracted attention. He was sought out, and his necessities were soon amply relieved. His volume of poems, subsequently published, drew forth the most flattering notices, and had a large sale.

It is, perhaps, necessary to add a word of explanation to this remarkable narrative. It may well excite surprise that any family, in a land like Scotland, should be reduced to such a state of suffering; and still more, that the cause of this suffering should not have been more quickly removed. It must, however, be borne in mind, that this was a time of unusual commercial distress-that the household from whom he so earnestly besought a night's lodging for his wretched family, had already sheltered a number, and could not accommodate any more-that his was an extreme case-one perhaps not equalled in suffering by any that ever occurred. It is true that the Scottish peasantry are not a wealthy class, but the industrious and temperate portion live in much simple comfort, and have that "contentment with godliness" which the Apostle Paul pronounces "great gain."

JEALIE'S GRAVE.

I SAW my true love first on the banks of queenly Tay,
Nor did I deem it yielding my trembling heart away;
I feasted on her deep dark eye, and loved it more and more,
For oh! I thought I ne'er had seen a look so kind before!

I heard my true love sing, and she taught me many a strain, But a voice so sweet, oh! never, shall my cold ear hear again.

In all our friendless wanderings-in homeless penury— Her gentle song and jetty eye, were all unchanged to me.

I saw my true love fade-I heard her latest sigh—
I wept no friv❜lous weeping when I closed her lightless eye;
Far from her native Tay she sleeps, and other waters lave
The markless spot where Ury creeps around my Jeanie's
grave.

Move noiseless, gentle Ury! around my Jeanie's bed,
And I'll love thee, gentle Ury! where'er my footsteps tread;
For sooner shall thy fairy wave return from yonder sea,
Than I forget yon lowly grave, and all it hides from me.

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