But gin ye lo'ed me as I lo e you, I wad ring my ain deid knell; My sel' wad vanish, shot through and through Wi' the shine o' yer sunny sel', By the licht aneath yer broo, I wad dee to mysel', and ring my bell, And only live in you. O lassie ayont the hill! Come ower the tap o' the hill, Or roun' the neuk o' the hill, For I want ye sair the nicht, I'm needin' ye sair the nicht, For I'm tired and sick o' mysel', A body's sel''s the sairest weichtO lassie, come ower the hill. GAEIN' AND COMIN'. WHAN Andrew frae Strathbogie gaed, O Lizzie, Lizzie, bonnie lassie ! What richt had ye to luik at me, When Andrew to Strathbogie cam', The sun was shinin' rarely; He rode a horse that pranced and sprang- And he had gowd to spend and spare, And a heart as true as ony; But's luik was doon, and his sigh was sair, O Lizzie, Lizzie, bonny hizzie, Ye're straught and rare, ye're fause and fair, AN AUTUMN WIND. THE autumn winds are sighing And my heart is sighing, dying, The autumn clouds are flying The homeless birds are crying My cries may turn to gladness, My sighs may lose the sadness, All my sadness, all my gladness, Maiden, rest in thee. CHILD'S SONG. LITTLE White Lily Little white Lily Little white Lily "Thanks to the sunshine! Thanks to the rain! Little white Lily Is happy again!” MATTHIAS BARR. MATTHIAS BARR was born on the 6th December 1831 at Edinburgh, where his father, a native of Germany, carried on business as a watchmaker. Through his mother, he is of Scottish descent. Educated at the High School and Academy of Edinburgh, he proceeded to London, where he now holds a respectable appointment in the city. Mr Barr first appeared as an author in 1865, by publishing a volume of "Poems.” During the following year he issued the "Child's Garland," 12mo, which was well received. His subsequent works are "Little Willie," Lond., 1867, 12mo; "Hours of Sunshine," Lond., 1869, 12mo; together with several illustrated books for children, published anonymously. A revised and enlarged edition of his "Poems" appeared in the spring of 1870. Mr Barr has composed a number of exquisite lyrics; his songs and rhymes for children have earned for him the title of "The Children's Poet Laureate;" they are unquestionably the best in the language. JEANNIE GRAY. I WONDER aften, Jeannie, An' gin thy heart's the same leal heart Though years on years ha'e sped awa' An' need I say how sair I grat An' thocht the warld a wilderness, How auld folks wonder'd in their love, Or what could ding his merry heart, But, ah! they little kenn'd that love Was twinin' roun' my heart- Thy page is ever green, When steps were licht an' free; And kindness in our ee? But tears ha'e flow'd sin' syne, Ere I forget, dear Jeannie Gray, The livelang simmer day, But live an' love for aye! I canna think, dear Jeannie Gray, I canna think thy head sae licht, A lang fareweel, dear Jeannie Gray! SHE'S A' MY AIN. SHE's a' my ain, she's a' my ain- Or lauchin' daisy on the lea, I lo'e to leave the busy thrang, E'en a' the love I canna hide. An' aye a wee han' clasps my ain, Ha'e I a grief, it's no' for gear, It isna, Jeannie, that I'm puir; I sit me down beside thee, love, But doubly dear to me, Jessie dear, Jessie dear, Is the twinkle o' thine ee, Jessie dear, Jessie dear; And dearer far the flame Jessie dear, Jessie dear. How sweet to stray at e'en, Jessie dear, Jessie dear, By the selfish warld unseen, Jessie dear, Jessie dear, When the heavens aboon us smile, An' a' Nature laughs the while, HER I LO'E. A DIMPLED face, a laughin' face, An' saft, saft words frae hinney lips, I'd gi'e a crown frae aff my head An' keep it for my sake. AFAR ON THE ROLLING SEA. THE sailor sings in the shrouds aloft, Oh! the day breaks not in a hundred years The waves may dash, and the lightning flash, But a sunshine the sailor hath of his own, He dreams of home in the black night-watch, And he breathes a prayer for the maiden fair And true to the sailor while afloat ONLY A BABY SMALL. ONLY a baby small, Dropt from the skies; Only a golden head, Empty of thought; Only a tender flower Sent us to rear; Only a life to love While we are here; Only a baby small, Never at rest; Small, but how dear to us, God knoweth best. JOHN HALLIDAY. JOHN HALLIDAY was born on the 18th July 1821, at Hawickshielsgate, near Hawick, Roxburghshire. His father was an agricultural labourer; and, with an ordinary education at school, he was, at an early age, engaged as an assistant shepherd to a tenant farmer in his native district. Inheriting from his mother a taste for the elder Scottish ballad, he devoted his leisure hours to reading such scraps of songs as he could manage to procure. In his thirteenth year he essayed to compose verses, and at the age of twenty became a contributor of poetical stanzas to the provincial journals. Encouraged by a numerous list of subscribers, he published, in 1847, "The Rustic Bard," a duodecimo volume of poems and songs. After being several years resident at Hopekirk, Roxburghshire, he removed in 1854 to Bridge of Allan, where he is employed as a landscape gardener. THE AULD AIK-TREE. OH, we ha'e been amang the bowers that winter didna bare, And we ha'e daunder'd in the howes where flowers were ever fair, And lain aneath as lofty trees as eye did ever see, Yet ne'er could lo'e them as we lo'e the auld aik-tree. It's no because its boughs are busk'd in any byous green, For simmer sairs it little now-it's no what it has been, Sin' ilka wauf o' win' that blaws dings dauds o't on the lea, And bairnies bear their burdens frae the auld aik-tree. It's no because the gowans bright grow bonnie by its ruit, For we ha'e seen them bloom as braw in mony a ither bit; Nor yet because the mavis sings his mellow morning glee Sae sweetly frae the branches o' the auld aik tree. But there's a kindly feeling found and foster'd in the heart, Which bears the thought a backward stream to lifetime's early part, And ties us to ilk morning scene o' love and laughing glee We've seen, and kenn'd, and join'd aneath the auld aik-tree. For we ha'e play'd aneath its shade a chuffiecheekit bairn, Unkennin' o', uncarin' for, cauld care or crosses stern, And ran around it at the ba' when we frae schule wan free! Then wha daur say we sudna lo'e the auld aik tree? We've speel'd upon its foggie stem and dern'd amang its green, To catch the pyet in her nest amidst the greys o' e'en ; And watch'd the gooldie bringin' doon to big her hame sae wee Atween the cosie forkings o' the auld aik-tree. And we ha'e tint and ta'en a heart when gloamin's shadows threw Out o'er the glen her misty grey in kindly drippin' dew, And felt the tear o' anguish fa' in torrents frae our ee, When pairting frae that loved ane 'neath the auld aik-tree. Our hame we left wi' hopefu' heart and mony a warm fareweel, And gowd and gear we gain'd awa; but oh, Where are they? where my childhood's hearth- ALEXANDER BUCHAN. ALEXANDER BUCHAN was born in Titchfield Street, Kilmarnock. He became, in his seventeenth year, teacher of an adventure school at Underhills, parish of Craigie; he subsequently taught at Kilmarnock and Irvine, and afterwards was appointed to St James' parish school, Glasgow. He enjoyed no inconsiderable reputation as a promoter of education. Mr Buchan contributed articles in prose and verse to the Kil marnock Annual, a publication of some merit; and he has latterly contributed verses to the Glasgow newspapers. In 1866, he published a volume entitled "The Song of Rest, and Minor Poems," London 8vo. From that work we are privileged to extract the following songs, MY HEART'S NO MY AIN. AWA' wi' thae offers o' gowd and o' gear, And awa' wi' the love that sic offers can gain; My heart is a jewel that canna be coft And, mither, dear mither, my heart's no my ain. The auld laird could mak' me a leddie, I kenBut what were a carriage and silk gown to me, When wi' the young shepherd that wons in the glen Contented and happy I only could be. The burnie that wimples by yon castle wa' Sings saftly to me in my sweet gloamin' dream, But lang ere it reaches yon mist-cover'd hill, Its music is drown'd in the big, roaring stream; And sae the young lassie that blooms in the cot, Transplanted, would wither and fade in the ha'; And her voice that sang blythe in her ain bonnie glens, In the struggle o' fashion would soon die awa'. HAME IN THE MORNING GREY. Oh! he sails south, and he sails north And takes the luck God sends, and hame Oh! there they go, the fisher lads, And there the dark-sail'd boats, But Jamie's is the brawest craft On the kindly wave that floats; And love in the thing that it lo'es weel Oh! he sails south, and he sails north, Or catch he many, or catch he few, |