NITHSIDE.

AIR-" There's a bonnie brier bush in our kail-yard.”

WHEN the lark is in the air, the leaf upon the tree,
The butterfly disporting beside the hummel bee;
The scented hedges white, the fragrant meadows pied,
How sweet it is to wander by bonnie Nithside!

When the blackbird piping loud the mavis strives to drown,

And schoolboys seeking nests find each nursling fledged or flown,

To hop 'mong plots and borders, array'd in all their pride,

How sweet at dewy morn to roam by bonnie Nithside!

When the flies are on the stream, 'neath a sky of azure hue,

And anglers take their stand by the waters bright and

blue;

While the coble circles pools, where the monarch salmon glide,

Surpassing sweet on summer days is bonnie Nithside!

When the corncraik's voice is mute, as her young begin to flee,

And seek with swifts and martins some home beyond

the sea;

And reapers crowd the harvest-field, in man and maiden

pride,

How exquisite the golden hours on bonnie Nithside!

When stubbles yield to tilth, and woodlands brown and

sear,

The falling leaf and crispy pool proclaim the waning

year;

And sounds of sylvan pastime ring through our valley wide,

Vicissitude itself is sweet by bonnie Nithside!

And when winter comes at last, capping every hill with snow,

And freezing into icy plains the struggling streams below, You still may share the curler's joys, and find at eventide,

Maids sweet and fair, in spence and ha', at bonnie Nithside!

EVENING.

HUSH, ye songsters! day is done,
See how sweet the setting sun
Gilds the welkin's boundless breast,
Smiling as he sinks to rest;
Now the swallow down the dell,
Issuing from her noontide cell,

Mocks the deftest marksman's aim
Jumbling in fantastic game:
Sweet inhabitant of air,

Sure thy bosom holds no care;
Not the fowler full of wrath,
Skilful in the deeds of death-

Not the darting hawk on high
(Ruthless tyrant of the sky!)
Owns one art of cruelty
Fit to fell or fetter thee,
Gayest, freest of the free!

Ruling, whistling shrill on high,
Where yon turrets kiss the sky,
Teasing with thy idle din

Drowsy daws at rest within;
Long thou lov'st to sport and spring
On thy never-wearying wing.
Lower now 'midst foliage cool
Swift thou skimm'st the peaceful pool,
Where the speckled trout at play,
Rising, shares thy dancing prey,
While the treach'rous circles swell
Wide and wider where it fell,
Guiding sure the angler's arm
Where to find the puny swarm ;
And with artificial fly,

Best to lure the victim's eye,
Till, emerging from the brook,
Brisk it bites the barbed hook;
Struggling in the unequal strife,
With its death, disguised as life,
Till it breathless beats the shore
Ne'er to cleave the current more!

Peace! creation's gloomy queen,
Darkest Night, invests the scene!
Silence, Evening's handmaid mild,
Leaves her home amid the wild,

Tripping soft with dewy feet,
Summer's flowery carpet sweet,
Morpheus-drowsy power-to meet.
Ruler of the midnight hour,
In thy plenitude of power,

From this burthen'd bosom throw
Half its leaden load of woe.
Since thy envied art supplies
What reality denies,

Let thy cheerless suppliant see
Dreams of bliss inspired by thee—
Let before his wond'ring eyes
Fancy's brightest visions rise-
Long lost happiness restore,
None can need thy bounty more.

PETER BUCHAN.

THE indefatigable collector of the elder national minstrelsy, Peter Buchan, was born in Peterhead in the year 1790. Of a somewhat distinguished descent, he was on the father's side remotely connected with the noble house of Buchan, and his mother was a lineal descendant of the Irvines of Drum, an old powerful family in Aberdeenshire. Though he was disposed to follow a seafaring life, and had obtained a commission in the Navy, he abandoned his early intentions at the urgent solicitation of his parents, and thereafter employed himself as a copperplate engraver, and was the inventor of an ingenious revolving press for copperplate printing. At Edinburgh and Stirling, he afterwards qualified himself for the business of a letterpress printer, and in 1816 opened a printing-office in his native town. In 1819, he compiled the "Annals of Peterhead," a duodecimo volume, which he printed at a press of his own contrivance. His next publication appeared shortly after, under the title, "An Historical Account of the Ancient and Noble Family of Keith, Earls-Marischal of Scotland."

After a period of residence in London, where he held for some time a remunerative situation, Buchan returned to his native town. In the metropolis, he had been painfully impressed by the harsh treatment frequently inflicted on the inferior animals, and as a corrective for the evil, he published at Peterhead, in 1824, a treatise, dedicated to his son, in which he endeavoured to prove that brutes are possessed of souls, and are immortal. His succeeding publication, which appeared in 1828, proved the most successful effort of his life; it was entitled,