While mournfully, and drearily, The rain-wind blows.

Thick on the unsunn'd lake

Float, murmuringly, its blasted reeds;
And on the pebbles break,

To rot among the oozy weeds;

The wreck of summer grand and beauteous spring, The hearse-like, pensive, chilly fret

Of the bleak water seems to sing

The elegy of bright suns set,

And all their balmy blossoms dead;
Like young life's verdant pastimes fled;
Nor sapphire sky, nor amber cloud,
Lies mirrored in the sombre wave:

The gloomy heaven's like Nature's shroud;
The water's lurid depth seemeth the grave
Of beauty gone.
And beauty's eye

No more with floral pleasure glows;
While mournfully, all mournfully,
The rain-wind blows.

There long decay hath been;

Through the rank weeds, and nettles vile,
Whistle the surly winds of e'en,

Where Scotland's Queen was wont to smile;

Who, in a dark and savage age,

Was learned and pious; read the sacred page Unto her lord; taught maids of lowliest home To know and love the Saviour-Lord;

To read his soul-uplifting word,

And understand the kingdom yet to come: Now sainted Margaret's bonny summer-bower Is reft of all its sylvan joy;

Nor vestige left of the Inch Tower;

Nor that which charmed the roaming boy;

The ancient Bush of glossy sloes:
Nought but the lightning-scathed tree
Remains; that, from its leafless boughs
Drops the cold dew incessantly,

Like Eld weeping for a young maiden's woes;
While mournfully, all mournfully,

The rain-wind blows.

Browse not the kine and horse;
Rusted the harrow and the plough;
And all day long upon the gorse,
Brown-blighted on the brae's rough brow,
The night-dew, and thin gossamer,
Hang chilly; and the weary sun
Seems tired amid the troubled air;
And, long ere his full course be run,
Besouth the Sidlaws wild, sinks down;
Night gathers fast o'er cot and town;
Around, and far as eye can see,
Day has a dreary, death-like close:
While mournfully, most mournfully,
The rain-wind blows.

Thick glooms fall on the wood;

A cold and thrilling sough is there;

"Tis like the heart's mirk mood,

That makes this fleeting world its care;
And hath no joys, nor hope of joys,
Above the vulgar mortal aim
Which all the grovelling soul employs,
Till quenched is its ethereal flame!
From sky to earth now all is night;
In every nook old Darkness creeps;
And art the halls of wealth must light,
Where beauty smiles; nay, haply weeps,
Amid the grandeur of a station high;
Tears from the fount of sympathy-

For hapless worth, worth which the world not knows;

O! blessed is the tear that flows,

Like manna-dew from a celestial tree,

For uncomplaining woes.

Now happy-O how happy they,

The toil-tired sons of honest industry,

Who, by the cheerful hearth, 'mid children gay,
In cottage-home, enjoy health's blithe repose,
While mournfully, and drearily,
The rain-wind blows.

A SUMMER LOVE-LETTER.

Let us rove, Jessie, rove; now the summer is brightest,

The sky pure azure, earth a green grassy sea; And clear are the fountains, where gowans bloom

whitest,

But heaven has nac light, earth nae beauty like thee.

Of a' that is fair, thou, dear Jessie, art fairest; Of a' that's bright, brighter thy thought's modesty,

That hallows each feeling-the sweetest and rarest;

Love declares that a beauty mair heaven couldna gie.

And a' things are happy where'er thou appearest; The darkness o' light's on thy lily e'ebree; Compared wi' which, night and her stars come

the nearest:

The love in thy breast is a heaven-ccstacy!

The pride o' my heart is to sing thee the fairest,
The sweet rays o' song are the morn in thine e'e;
And in thy bright bosom a jewel thou wearest,
O were it mine, richer than kings I would be!

O, how shall I win it-that jewel sae simple?
I'll think it a flower on the untrodden lea,
My love a pure stream that, wi' clear, sunny
wimple,

Sings-heaven is mair blessed that lily to sec!

Let us rove, Jessie, rove, for a' nature is blooming;

The siller burns dance o'er the pebbles wi' glee; And flowers in their prime are the saft breeze

perfuming;

O the summer day's bright, green every bower, And blithe is the song of the silver stream; But brighter and blither the curfew-hour, When love was my dream.

We'll rove by the burnie where summer is

sweetest,

Where every wee blossom gi'es balm to the bee: But thou, fairest Flower! fair nature completest, And every bird sings-nature's perfect in thee!

We'll rove in the woodland, where violets are springing,

They wait to unfold their chaste virtues to thee; In the dell, to her children loved, summer is singing:

But thou art the Muse o' my heart's melodie.

Youth is the gay season o' love-the prime blessing;

And the corn-fields drink of his mellowing beam; But richer the star of the curfew-hour, When love was my dream.

O sweet winter's hearth, while music's power Encharms heart and soul, like a joy supreme; But sweeter by moonlight the curfew-hour, When love was my dream.

O! brightest and sweetest o' the twenty-four, Announced by the silver peal,-like a gleam Of hope from heaven, was the curfew-hour, When love was my dream.

When the heart was young, and life seemed a dower,

The maiden all lovely--my soul's esteem,

HEW AINSLIE, One of the best living writers of Scottish songs and ballads, was born April 5, 1792, at Bargeny Mains, in the parish of Dailly, Ayrshire, on the estate of Sir Hew Dalrymple Hamilton, in whose service his father had been employed for many years. He was educated first by a private tutor at home, afterwards at the parish-school of Ballantrae, and finally at the Ayr Academy. At the age of fourteen delicate health induced him to forego the further prosecution of his studies, and to return to his native hills. Sir Hew was at this time engaged in an extensive plan for the improvement of his estate, under the direction of the celebrated landscape-gardener White, and a number of young men from the south. Young Ainslie joined this company, as he says, "to harden my constitution and check my overgrowth. Amongst my planting companions I found a number of intelligent young men, who had got up in a large granary a private theatre, where they occasionally performed for the amusement of the neighbourhood the 'Gentle Shepherd,' 'Douglas,' &c., and in due time I was to my great joy found tall enough, lassie-looking enough, and flippant enough, to take the part of the pert 'Jenny;' and the first relish I got for anything like sentimental song was from learning and singing the songs in that pastoral, auld ballads that my mother sung-and she sang many and sang them well-having been all the poetry I cared for. For three years, which was up to the time we removed to Roslin, I remained in this employment, acquiring a tough, sound constitution, and at the same time some knowledge of nursery and floral

culture."

In his seventeenth year he was sent to Glasgow to study law in the office of a relation, but the pursuit proving uncongenial he returned to Roslin. Soon after he obtained a situation in the Register House, Edinburgh, which he retained until 1822, a portion of the time being passed at Kinniel House, as the amanuensis of Prof. Dugald Stewart, whose last work he copied for the press. Having married in 1812,

and finding his salary inadequate to the maintenance of his family, Ainslie resolved to go to the United States, and accordingly set sail, arriving in New York in July, 1822. He purchased a small farm in Rensselaer county, N. Y., and resided there for three years. He next made trial for a year of Robert Owen's settlement at New Harmony, Indiana, but found it a failure, and then removed to Cincinnati, where he entered into partnership with Price and Wood, brewers. In 1829 he established a branch at Louisville, which was ruined by an inundation of the Ohio in 1832. He erected a similar establishment the same year in New Albany, Indiana, which was destroyed by fire in 1831.

Satisfied with these experiments, he employed himself-till his retirement from business a few years ago-in superintending the erection of mills, factories, and breweries in the Western States.

In 1864 Ainslie visited Scotland, after an absence of more than forty years, and was warmly welcomed by old friends and many new ones to his native land. From the leading literary men of Edinburgh and Glasgow, and especially from the poets, he received many most gratifying marks of attention and respect. He still enjoys good health for a person upwards of fourscore years of age, and continues to reside in Louisville. On the one hundred and twelfth anniversary of the birth of Burns a large company assembled in Louisville to celebrate the day so dear to all Scotchmen. The chairman was the venerable poet, whose memory dates back nearly to the days of the Ayrshire bard, and who, in a humorous address delivered on the occasion, told how he had had the honour of kissing Bonny Jean," the wife of the great poet.

66

Ainslie was a poet from his carly years, and had composed verses before he left his native Carrick. A visit to Ayrshire in 1820 renewed the ardour of his muse, which, on the eve of his departure from Scotland, burst forth into authorship under the title of A Pilgrimage to the Land of Burns. A second volume from

poetry of his native land. They well deserve the reputation they acquired half a century ago, and which they still retain in the New and Old Worlds.

"STANDS SCOTLAND WHERE IT DID?"

Hoo's dear auld mither Scotland, lads,
Hoo's kindly Scotland noo?
Are a' her glens as green 's of yore,
Her hills as stern an' blue?

I meikle dread the iron steed,
That tears up heugh and fell,
Has given our canny old folk
A sorry tale to tell.

Ha'e touns ta'en a' our bonnie burns
To cool their lowin' craigs?
Or damm'd them up in timmer troughs
To slock their yettlin' naigs?

Do Southern loons infest your touns
Wi' mincing Cockney gab?

Ha'e "John and Robert" ta'en the place
O' plain auld "Jock an' Rab?"

In sooth, I dread a foreign breed Noo rules o'er "corn an' horn;" An' kith an' kin I'd hardly fin',

Or place whare I was born.

They're houkin sae in bank an' brae,
An' sheughin' hill an' howe:

I tremble for the bonny broom,
The whin an' heather cowe.

I fear the dear auld "Deligence"
An' Flies" ha'e flown the track,
An' cadgers braw, pocks, creels an' a',
Gane i' the ruthless wrack.

Are souple kimmers kirkward boun,
On Sabbath to be seen?
Wi' sturdy carles that talk o' texts,
Roups, craps, an' days ha'e been.
Gang lasses yet wi' wares to sell
Barefitit to the toun?
Is wincie still the wiliecoat
An' demitty the goun?

Do wanters try the yarrow leaf
Upon the first o' May?

Are there touslings on the hairst rig,
An' houtherings 'mang the hay?
Are sheepshead dinners on the board,
Wi' gousty haggis seen?
Come scones an' farls at four hours;
Are sowens sair'd at e'en?

Are winkings 'tween the preachings rife
Out-owre the baps an' yill?

Are there cleekings i' the kirk gates,
An' loans for lovers still?

Gang loving sauls in plaids for shawls A courtin' to the bent?

Has gude braid lawlins left the land?
Are kail and crowdy kent?

Ah! weel I min', in dear langsyne,
Our rantin's round the green;
The meetings at the trystin' tree,
The "chappings out" at e'en.

Oh bootless queries, vanish'd scenes;
Oh wan and wintry Time!
Why lay alike, on heart an' dyke,
Thy numbing frost and rime?

E'en noo my day gangs doun the brae,
An' tear draps fa' like rain,
To think the fouth o' gladsome youth
Can ne'er return again.

THE ROVER O' LOCHRYAN.

The Rover o' Lochryan he's gane,

Wi' his merry men sae brave; Their hearts are o' the steel, and a better keel Ne'er bowled o'er the back o' a wave.

It's no when the loch lies dead in its trough,
When naething disturbs it ava;

But the rack an' the ride o' the restless tide,
An' the splash o' the gray sea-maw.

It's no when the yawl an' the light skiffs crawl Owre the breast o' the siller sea,

That I look to the west for the bark I lo'e best, An' the Rover that's dear to me.

But when that the clud lays its cheeks to the flud, An' the sea lays its shouther to the shore; When the wind sings high, and the sea-whaups

cry,

As they rise frae the deafening roar.

It's then that I look thro' the thickening rook,
An' watch by the midnight tide;

I ken the wind brings my Rover hame,
And the sea that he glories to ride.

Merrily he stands 'mang his jovial crew,
Wi' the helm heft in his hand,
An' he sings aloud to his boys in blue,
As his e'e's upon Galloway's land-
"Unstent and slack each recf and tack,
Gi'e her sail, boys, while it may sit;
She has roar'd thro' a heavier sea afore,
And she'll roar thro' a heavier yet.

"When landsmen drouse, or trembling rouse,
To the tempest's angry moan,

We dash thro' the drift, and sing to the lift
O' the wave that heaves us on.

"It's braw, boys, to see, the morn's blythe e'e,
When the night's been dark an' drear;
But it's better far to lie, wi' our storm-locks dry,
In the bosom o' her that is dear.

"Gi'e her sail, gi'e her sail, till she buries her wale,

Gi'e her sail, boys, while it may sit; She has roar'd thro' a heavier sea afore, An' she'll roar thro' a heavier yet!"

THE SWEETEST O' THEM A'. When springtime gi'es the heart a lift Out ower cauld winter's snaw and drift, An' April's showers begin to sift

Fair flowers on field an' shaw, Then, Katie, when the dawing's clearFresh as the firstlings o' the year— Come forth, my joy-my dearest dearO! sweetest o' them a'!

When pleasant primrose days are doon-
When linties sing their saftest tune--
And simmer, nearing to his noon,
Gars rarest roses blaw-

Then, sheltered frae the sun an' win',
Beneath the buss, below the linn,
I'll tell thee hoo this heart ye win,
Thou sweetest o' them a'.

When flowers hae ripened into fruit-
When plantings wear their Sabbath suit-

When win's grow loud, and birdies mute,
An' swallows flit awa'-
Then, on the lee side o' a stook,
Or in some calm an' cosie nook,
I'll swear I'm thine upon the Book,
Thou sweetest o' them a'.

Tho' black December bin's the pool
Wi' blasts might e'en a wooer cool,
It's them that brings us canty Yule
As weel's the frost an' snaw.
Then, when auld winter's raging wide,
An' cronies crowd the ingle-side,
I'll bring them ben a blooming bride-
O! sweetest o' them a'!

ON WI' THE TARTAN.

Do ye like, my dear lassie,
The hills wild an' free,
Where the sang o' the shepherd
Gars a' ring wi' glee;

Or the steep rocky glens,

Where the wild falcons bide? Then on wi' the tartan,

An' fy let us ride!

Do ye like the knowes, lassie,
That ne'er were in riggs,
Or the bonny lowne howes,
Where the sweet robin biggs?
Or the sang o' the lintie,
When wooing his bride;
Then on wi' the tartan,

An' fy let us ride.

Do ye like the burn, lassie,

That loups amang linns, Or the bonny green holmes

Where it cannily rins; Wi' a cantie bit housie,

Sae snug by its side; Then on wi' the tartan, An' fy let us ride.

THE LAST LOOK OF HOME.

Our sail has ta'en the blast,

Our pennant's to the sea, And the waters widen fast

"Twixt the fatherland and me.

Then, Scotland, fare thee wellThere's a sorrow in that word