THE WIDOW. On, there's naebody hears Widow Miller complain, Oh, there's naebody hears Widow Miller complain; Though the heart o' this warld's as hard as a stane, Yet there's naebody hears Widow Miller complain. Though totterin' noo, like her auld crazy biel, Her step ance the lichtest on hairst-rig or reel; Though sighs tak' the place o' the heart-cheerin' strain, Yet there's naebody hears Widow Miller complain! Though humble her biggin', and scanty her store, The beggar ne'er yet went unserved frae her door; Though she aft lifts the lid o' her girnel in vain, Yet there's nacbody hears Widow Miller complain! Though thin, thin her locks, noo like hilldrifted snaw, Ance sae glossy and black, like the wing o' the craw; Though grief frae her mild cheek the red rose has ta'en, Yet there's naebody hears Widow Miller complain. The sang o' the lark finds the Widow asteer, The birr o' her wheel starts the nicht's dreamy ear; The tears o'er the tow-tap will whiles fa' like rain, Yet there's naebody hears Widow Miller complain! Ye may hear in her speech, ye may see in her claes, That auld Widow Miller has seen better days, Ere her auld Robin dee'd, sae fond an' sae fain'Yet there's naebody hears Widow Miller complain! Oh, sad was the hour when the brave Forty-twa, Wi' their wild-sounding pipes, march'd her callant awa'; Though she schules, feeds, an' cleeds his wee orphan wean, Yet there's naebody hears Widow Miller complain ! Ye wild wintry winds, ye blaw surly and sair On the heart that is sad, on the wa's that are bare; When care counts the links o'life's heavy chain, The poor heart is hopeless that winna complain. The Sabbath-day comes, and the Widow is seen I'the aisle o' the auld kirk, baith tidy and clean; Though she aft sits for hours on the mossygrave-stane, Yet there's naebody hears Widow Miller complain! An' then when she turns frae the grave's lanely sod, To breathe out her soul in the ear of her God; Ye wealthy an' wise in this fair world o' ours, When your fields wave wi' gowd, your gardens wi' flowers; When ye bind up the sheaves, leave out a few grains To the heart-broken Widow wha never complains. THE HIGHLAND PLAID. WHAT though ye ha'e nor kith nor kin, An' few to tak' your part, love; A happy hame ye'll ever fin' Within my glowing heart, love. So! while I breathe the breath o' life, Misfortune ne'er shall steer ye; My Highland Plaid is warm and wideCreep closer, my wee dearie! The thunder loud, the burstin' cloud, May speak o' ghaists an' witches, An' spunkie lichts may lead puir wichts Through bogs an' droonin' ditches; There's no ae imp in a' the host, This nicht will daur come near ye; My Highland Plaid is warm an' wideCreep closer, my wee dearie! Why do you heave sic heavy sighs, An earl's star I wear, love, I woo'd ye as a shepherd youth, MRS SIMPSON nee Jane Cross Bell, is the daughter of the late James Bell, Esq., Advocate, and is a native of Glasgow. Her first effusions, written in early youth, were published in the Greenock Advertiser, while her father for a short time resided in that town, as assessor to the Magistrates. To the pages of the Edinburgh Literary Journal, edited by her brother Henry Glassford Bell, she afterwards contributed numerous poetical compositions, and subsequently various articles in prose and verse to the Scottish Christian Herald, then under the editorship of the Rev. Dr Gardner. She assumed the literary nom de plume of "Gertrude," and under this designation she reproduced her poetical compositions in "April Hours," a small duodecimo, which appeared in 1838. She had previously published in 1836 a volume of tales and sketches, entitled "The Piety of Daily Life." In 1848 she published "Woman's History." Her latest work, "Linda; or Beauty and Genius," appeared in 1859. She is at present engaged in editing the works of Robert Burns. "Gertrude" has been for many years married to her cousin Mr J. B. Simpson, of Glasgow. GENTLENESS. OH! the winning charm of gentleness, so beautiful to me, 'Tis this has bound my soul so long, so tenderly, to thee; The gentle heart, like jewel bright, beneath the ocean blue, In every look and tone of thine, still shining sweetly through! What though the crowd with wonder bow, before great genius' fire, And wit, with lightning flash, commands to reverence and admire; "Tis gentleness alone that gains the tribute of our love, And falls upon the ear like dew on flowers, from heaven above! Ah! many a day has passed since then, yet I remember well, Once from my lips an angry thought, in hasty accents fell; A word of wrath I utter'd, in a light and wayward mood Of wrath to thee, my earliest friend, the noble and the good! No answering words were given for mine, but, calm and bright as now, Thy speaking eyes a moment dwelt upon my ruffled brow, And then a sweet, forgiving smile came o'er thy pensive face, And thy hand was softly tender'd me, with melancholy grace. An instant mute and motionless, before thee did I stand, And gazed upon thy placid mien, thy smile, thy proffer'd hand— Ah! ne'er could angel, sent to walk this earth of sinful men, Look lovelier in his robes of light, than thou to me wert then! I long'd to weep-I strove to speak-no words came from my tongue, Then silently to thy embrace, I wildly, fondly sprung; The sting of guilt, like lightning, struck to my awaken'd mind; I could have borne to meet thy wrath-'twas death to see thee kind! 'Tis ever thus! when anger wins but anger in return, A trifle grows a thing of weight, and fast the fire will burn; But when reproachful words are still in mild forgiveness past, The proudest soul will own his fault, and melt in tears at last! O Gentleness! thy gentleness, so beautiful to me! It will ever bind my heart in love and tenderness to thee; I bless thee for all high-born thoughts, that fill that breast of thine, But most, I bless thee for that gift of gentleness divine! HE LOVED HER FOR HER MERRY EYE. He loved her for her golden hair, That o'er her shoulders hung; The music of her tongue. He loved her for her airy form He loved her for her simple heart, But not for him that bosom beat, He never told her of his love, He breathed no prayer-no vow; And when, at length, she pass'd away, He made his home 'mid ocean's waves- MARION PAUL AIRD. MARION PAUL AIRD is a native of Glasgow. Her paternal ancestors were respectable yeomen in the Carrick district of Ayrshire. Her mother, a niece of Hamilton Paul, was descended from a race of opulent landowners in the district of Cunningham. In her youth, Miss Aird had her abode in a romantic cottage at Govan Hill, in the vicinity of Glasgow. For a number of years she has resided in Kilmarnock. She composed verses in early youth. In 1846 she published a duodecimo volume of poems and lyrics, entitled "The Home of the Heart, and other Poems;" this was followed in 1853 by a volume of prose and verse, under the title of "Heart Histories." * See ante, p. 128. THE FA' O' THE LEAF. The fire that's blawn out, ance mair may be lighted, An' a wee spark o' hope in the cauld heart may burn; An' the "morning star" break on the traveller benighted, An' day, wi' its fresh gushing glories, return: But dool, dool the fa', when shakes the clay shielin', An' the last keek o' day sets for ever in night! When no ae wee star through the dark clud is stealin', Through the cauld wave o' death, his dark spirit to light. The spring flowers o' life, a' sae blythesome and bonnie, FAR, FAR AWAY. TUNE-"Long, long ago." HAD I the wings of a dove, I would fly Fadeless the flowers in yon Eden that blow, Hearts, like their garments, are pure as the snow, There never trembles a sigh of regret, Far, far away; far, far away; WILLIAM SINCLAIR. A PLEASING lyric poet, William Sinclair, was born at Edinburgh in 1811. His father was a trader in the city. Receiving an ordinary education, he became in his fourteenth year apprentice to a bookseller in Frederick Street. A large circulating library connected with the establishment enabled him to gratify an ardent love of reading, and brought him into contact with persons of literary tastes. Quitting the business of bookseller, he proceeded to Dundee, as clerk in a lawyer's office. He afterwards accepted a situation in the Customs at Liverpool. His official services were subsequently transferred to Leith, where he had the privilege of associating with the poets Moir, Gilfillan, and Vedder. Early devoted to song-writing, Mr Sinclair, while a bookseller's apprentice, contributed verses to the newspapers and popular periodicals. Some of his poetical compositions have appeared in Blackwood's Magazine. The poet Robert Nicoll submitted the first edition of his poems to his revision. In 1843 he published an octavo volume of poems and songs, with the title "Poems of the Fancy and the Affections." Several of his songs have been set to music. Mr Sinclair has latterly resided in Stirling. THE ROYAL BREADALBANE OAK. THY queenly hand, Victoria, By the mountain and the rock, That shall bind us to thy name, The oak hath scatter'd terror O'er our foemen from our ships, They have given the voice of England's fame "Twill be mirror'd in the rills! While it waves unto the tempest, It shall call thy name to mind, By Victoria's name adored |