She wished to inquire of the whispering crew,

If they'd spoke with the Roebuck, or ought of her knew; For long in conjecture her fate had been tost,

Nor knew we for certain the Roebuck was lost.

I pitied her feelings, and saw what she'd ask, (For Innocence ever looks through a thin mask), I stepp'd to Jack Oakum, his sad head he shook, And cast on sweet Kitty a side-glancing look : "The Roebuck has founder'd-the crew are no moreNor again shall Jack Bowling be welcom'd on shore !"

Sweet Kitty, suspecting, laid hold of my arm :
"O tell me," she cried, "for my soul's in alarm;
Is she lost?" I said nothing; while Jack gave a sigh,
Then down dropp'd the curtain that hung o'er her eye;
Fleeting life, for a moment, seem'd willing to stay,
Just flutter'd, and then fled for ever away.

So droops the pale lily, surcharg'd with the shower,
Sunk down as with sorrow, so dies the sweet flower;
No sunbeam returning, nor spring ever gay,
Can give back the soft breath once wafted away;
The eye-star when set, never rises again,

Nor pilots one vessel more over the main !1

S Blamire

1 From a volume of Poems and Songs by Miss Susanna Blamire, with a Memoir and some account of her writings, by Mr. Patrick Maxwell, Edinburgh. Miss Blamire was a native of Cumberland; she was born at Thackwood, in the parish of Sowerby, in 1747, and died in Carlisle in 1795. She has long been favourably known as the author of "What ails this heart o' mine," "The Nabob's Return," ," "The Chelsea Pensioners," and lately has been proved

MATTHEW M'FARLANE.

THE KILBARCHAN RECRUIT.

AIR-" Kenmure's on an' awa'” etc.

WHARE cam' the guineas frae, Matthew, my dear?
I trow thou had nane till the sodgers cam' here;
If they be the king's, or the sergeant's, my son,
Gi'e them back, for thou never maun carry the gun.
Could thou e'er think to gang o'er the braid sea,
To lea'e the loan-head, the auld bigging, and me;
The smith and the smiddy, thy loom, and the lass
That stands at the gavle and laughs when ye pass?

Mind, Matthew! for thou likes thy belly fu' weel,
There is naething abroad like our hearty aitmeal,
Nor guid sheep-head-kail, for nae outlandish woman
Has the gumption to ken that they need sic a scummin'.

In thy lug tho' that wild Highland sergeant may blaw,
And talk o' the ferlies he's seen far awa',

And the pleasures and ease o' a sodgering life,
Believe me, it's naething but labour and strife!

If thy fit should but slip in the midst o' the drilling,
The ranking and rawing, and marching and wheeling,
The sergeant would cry, "Shoot the stammering loon!"
or else,

"Tie the scoonerel up to the halberds, ye scoonerels!"

And when our king George to the wars wad be prancing, Wi' the crown on his head, and his sceptre a' glancing, Wi' chariots, and horsemen, and cornels, a host o' them, And Sergeant M'Tavish as proud as the best o' them;

to have written that exquisite Scottish lyric, "An' ye shall walk in silk attire." Her songs amount to between thirty and forty, many of them of surpassing beauty; and her poems bear the impress of a highly gifted poetical mind.

My son, and the rest o' the puir single men would be
Trudging behint them wi' their legs twining wearily :
Laden like camels, and cringing like colly dogs,

Till the Frenchman in swarms wad come bizzin' about their lugs.

Then to meet Bonaparté rampaging and red

To the verra e'en holes wi' the spilling o' bluid!

O, maybe the fiend in his talons wad claught thee! And rive thee to sprawls without speering whase aught thee!

Thou maunna wear claes o' red, Matthew M'Farlane!
Nor ringe wi' twa sticks on a sheep's-skin my darlin'!
Nor cadge wi' a knapsack frae Dan to Beersheba, nor
Dee like thy father at wearifu' Baltimore !

Bide still in Kilbarchan ! and wha kens but thou
May be some day an elder, and keep a bit cow,
And ha'e for thy wife the braw throughither lass
That stands at the gavle and laughs when ye pass.

But if thou man sodger, and vex thy puir mither,
It's ae comfort to me, should I ne'er ha'e anither,
Whaever may shoot thee, their prey when they mak' o'
thee,

Will e'en get a gude linen sark on the back o' thee.

WM. CROSS.

THE CURLERS' GARLAND.

CURLERS, gae hame to your spades, or your ploughs, To your beuks, to your planes, or your thummills; Curlers, gae hame, or the ice ye'll fa' thro';

Hame, swith! to your elshins, or wummills.

The curlin's ower, for the thow is come;
On Mistilaw the snaw is meltin',

His hetherie haffets kythe black in the win',
And the rain has begun a peltin'.

A lang fareweel to greens and beef,
To yill, to whisky, and bakes:

Fu'o' cracks is the ice, but we'll smuir our dule
By gorblin' up parritch and cakes.

We'll nae mair think o' the slithery rink,
Nor the merry soun' "Tee high,"

Nor "Inwick here," nor "Break an egg there,"
Nor "He's far ower stark, soop him bye."

We maunna think o' the slithery rink,

Nor of hurras a volley;

The ice is dauchie, nae fun can we get,

For ilka stane lies a collie;

Nor roar "Besoms up, he's a capital shot;"

"Now Jock, lie here, I say ;"

"He's weel laid on, soop him up, soop him up ;"

"Now guard him, and won is the day."

But we trow when winter comes again,

Wi' a' its frosts an' snaws,

We'll on the ice ance mair forgether,
Before life's gloamin' close.

-Curlers, gae hame to your spades or your ploughs,
To your pens, to your spules, or your thummills;
Curlers, gae hame, or the ice ye'll fa' through—
Tak' your ellwands, your elshins, or wummills.

When writing these verses the author had in his eye Castlesemple Loch in Renfrewshire, a famous place for curling. Mistilaw is a conspicuous hill in the neighbourhood.

VOL. I.

2 A

HALKERTON'S CALF.

TUNE-" The Corby and Pyet."

AN ill-deedy limmer is Halkerton's cow,

An' ower mony marrows has Halkerton's cow;
But the auldest greybeard sin' he kent a pickstaff,
Ne'er heard o' a marrow to Halkerton's calf.

Ne'er heard, etc.

Whan the kailyard is out o' its best cabbage stock,
An' the hairst-rig is short o' a thrave or a stouk,
An' the stack has been eased o' the canny drawn sheaf,
The mark o' the cloven foot tells o' the thief.

The mark, etc.

He's doure i' the uptack, the deil canna teach,
This wonderfu' calf has the rare gift o' speech;
Has scripture by heart, as the gowk has its lied,
An' fechts wi' his tongue for a kirk an' a creed.
An' fechts, etc.

At alehouse an' smiddy he rairs an' he cracks,
'Bout doctrines, an' duties, an' statutes, and acts;
At blythemeat, an' dredgy, yulefeast, an' infare,
He's ready aff-hand wi' a grace or a prayer.

He's ready, etc.