Gave by flowers at thy feet, or the haw bloom above.

ALEXANDER MACLAGAN was born at Perth, April 3, 1811. His father Thomas Maclagan, first a farmer and afterwards a manufacturer, removed to Edinburgh when his son was five years of age. He attended several schools in Edinburgh, and when ten years old was placed in a jeweller's shop, where he remained for two years, when he was apprenticed to a plumber.

He applied his leisure time to diligent study, and in 1829, while yet an apprentice, became a contributor to the Edinburgh Literary Jour nal, some of his poetical pieces receiving the commendation of Professor Wilson and the Ettrick Shepherd. He afterwards proceeded to London, where he worked for some time at his trade, and where he made the acquaintance

And hourly prove,

The joys that move

The pure heart with a sister's love.

THE OUTCAST.

And did you pity me, kind sir?

Say, did you pity me?

Then, oh how kind, and oh how warm,
Your generous heart must be!
For I have fasted all the day,
Ay, nearly fasted three,

And slept upon the cold, hard earth,
And none to pity me;

And none to pity me, kind sir,

And none to pity me.

My mother told me I was born
On a battlefield in Spain,
Where mighty men like lions fought,
Where blood ran down like rain!

And how she wept, with bursting heart,
My father's corse to see!
When I lay cradled 'mong the dead,
And none to pity me;
And none to pity me, kind sir,
And none to pity me.

At length there came a dreadful day,—
My mother too lay dead,-
And I was sent to England's shore

To beg my daily bread,—

To beg my bread; but cruel men
Said, Boy, this may not be,

So they locked me in a cold, cold cell,
And none to pity me;

And none to pity me, kind sir,
And none to pity me.

They whipped me,-sent me hungry forth;
I saw a lovely field

Of fragrant beans; I plucked, I ate;
To hunger all must yield.
The farmer came,-a cold, a stern,
A cruel man was he;
He sent me as a thief to jail,

And none to pity me;
And none to pity me, kind sir,
And none to pity me.

It was a blessed place for me,
For I had better fare;
It was a blessed place for me,-
Sweet was the evening prayer.
At length they drew my prison bolts,
And I again was free,---

Poor, weak, and naked in the street,
And none to pity me;
And none to pity me, kind sir,

And none to pity me.

I saw sweet children in the fields,
And fair ones in the street,

And some were eating tempting fruit,

And some got kisses sweet;
And some were in their father's arms,
Some on their mother's knee;

I thought my orphan heart would break,
For none did pity me;

For none did pity me, kind sir,

For none did pity me.

Then do you pity me, kind sir?

Then do you pity me?

Then, oh how kind, and oh how warm,
Your generous heart must be!
For I have fasted all the day,

Ay, fasted nearly three,

And slept upon the cold, hard ground,
And none to pity me;

And none to pity me, kind sir,
And none to pity me.

LOVE'S EVENING SONG.

Night's finger hath prest down the eyelids of day,
And over his breast thrown a mantle of gray,-
I'll out to the fields, and my lonely way
Shall be lighted by fancy's burning ray;
And, oh! might I hear my own love say,-
"Sing on, sing on, I'll bless thy strain,"-
My heart would re-echo most willingly,
"Amen, sweet spirit, amen!"

I seek the green bank where the streamlet flows,
The home of the bluebell and wild primrose;
Where the glittering spray from the fountain
springs,

And twines round the branches like silver strings,
Or falls again through the yellow moon's rays,
Like rich drops of gold-a thousand ways.
I come in thy presence, thou bright new moon!
To spend nature's night, but true love's noon;
To stretch me out on the flowery earth,
And to christen with tears the young buds' birth.

Oh! surely, ye heavens! some being of light
Is descending to earth in this calm, calm night,
Bearing balm and bliss from a holy sphere,
To cheer the hearts that are sorrowing here,
Gently alighting upon each breast

It knew on earth and loved the best;
That its strength be renewed, its sleep be rest,
Its thoughts be pure, and its dreams be blest.

Spirit of brightness on me alight,
For the thirst of my soul would gladly sip
The dew that is shed from thy downy wing;

Then breathe, sweet spirit, oh! breathe on my

lip,

And teach me the thoughts of my soul to sing, For my words must be warmed at a holy flame Ere I venture to breathe my true-love's name! I speak it not to the worldly throng,

I sing it not in the festive song;

But when clasped in the arms of the solcmn wood,

In the calm of morn and the stillness of even,
I tell to the ear of solitude

The name that goes up with my prayers to heaven.

Come, Echo! come, Echo! but not from the caves Where gloom ever broods and the wild wind raves, Come not in the gusts that sweep over the graves, In the roar of the storm or the dash of the waves; But softly, gently, rise from the earth,

As full as the heave of a maiden's breast, When the first sigh of love is starting to birth, And sweetly disturbing her bosom's rest; Softly, gently, rise from the bed

Where the young May gowan hath laid its head,
Hath laid its head, and slept all night,
With a dewy heart-so pure and bright;
Come with its breath, and the tinge of its blush,
Come with its smile when the skies grow flush:
Come, and I'll tell thee the secret way
Thou must go to my love with my lowly lay;-
Onward, on, through the silent grove,
Where the tangled branches are interwove;
Onward, on, where the moon's gold beam
Is painting heaven upon the stream;
Through flowery paths still onward, on,
Till you meet my love as you meet the sun-
A being too bright to look proud upon!
But her gentle feet will as softly pass
As the shade of a cloud on the sleeping grass;
And the soul-fed blue of her lovely eye
Is as dark as the depths of the cloudless sky,
And as full of magic mystery!

And, more than all, her breath is sweet
As the blended odours you love to meet,
When you stir at morn the blooming bowers,
And awake the air that sleeps round the flowers.
Then tell her, Echo, my whisper'd vow,

I cannot breathe it so well as thou,
Oh! tell her all I am feeling now!

THE AULD MEAL MILL.

The auld meal mill-oh, the auld meal mill,
Like a dream o' my schule-days it haunts me still;
Like the sun's summer blink on the face o' a hill,
Stands the love o' my boyhood, the auld meal mill.

When flashin' and dashin' the paddles flee round, The miller's blythe whistle aye blends wi' the sound;

The spray, like the bricht draps whilk rainbows distil,

Fa's in showers o' red gowd round the auld meal mill.

The wild Hielan' heather grows thick on its thack, The ivy and apple-tree creep up its back;

The lightning-wing'd swallow, wi' Nature's ain skill,

Builds its nest 'neath the eaves o' the auld meal mill.

Keep your e'e on the watch-dog, for Cæsar kens weel

When the wild gipsy laddies are tryin' to steal; But he lies like a lamb, and licks wi' good will The hard, horny hand that brings grist to the mill.

There are mony queer jokes 'bout the auld meal mill;

They are noo sober folks 'bout the auld meal mill,
But ance it was said that a het Hielan' still
Was aften at wark near the auld meal mill.

When the plough's at its rest, the sheep i' the fauld,

Sic gatherin's are there, baith o' young folk and auld;

The herd blaws his horn, richt bauldly and shrill, A' to bring doon his clan to the auld meal mill.

Then sic jumpin' o'er barrows, o'er hedges and harrows

The men o' the mill can scarce fin' their marrows; Their lang-barrell'd guns wad an armoury fillThere's some capital shots near the auld meal mill.

At blithe penny-weddin' or christ'nin' a wee ane,
Sic ribbons, sic ringlets, sic feathers are fleein';
Sic laughin', sic daffin', sic dancin', until
The laft near comes doon o' the auld meal mill.

I hae listen'd to music-ilk varying tone
Frae the harp's deein' fa' to the bagpipe's drone;
But nane stirs my heart wi' sae happy a thrill
As the sound o' the wheel o' the auld meal mill.

Success to the mill and the merry mill-wheel! Lang, lang may it grind aye the wee bairnies'

meal!

Bless the miller-wha aften, wi' heart and goodwill,

Fills the widow's toom pock at the auld meal mill.

Like a dream o' my schule-days it haunts me still; Like the sun's summer blink on the face o' a hill, Stands the love o' my boyhood, the auld meal mill.

CURLING SONG.

Hurrah for Scotland's worth and fame,
A health to a' that love the name;
Hurrah for Scotland's darling game,

The pastime o' the free, boys.
While head, an' heart, an' arm are strang,
We'll a' join in a patriot's sang,
And sing its praises loud and lang-
The roarin' rink for me, boys.

Hurrah, hurrah, for Scotland's fame,
A health to a' that love the name;
Hurrah for Scotland's darling game;
The roarin' rink for me, boys.

Gie hunter chaps their break-neck hours,
Their slaughtering guns amang the muirs;
Let wily fisher prove his powers

At the flinging o' the flee, boys.
But let us pledge ilk hardy chiel,
Wha's hand is sure, wha's heart is leal,
Wha's glory's in a brave bonspiel-

The roarin' rink for me, boys.

In ancient days-fame tells the fact-
That Scotland's heroes werena slack
The heads o' stubborn foes to crack,

And mak' the feckless flee, boys.
Wi' brave hearts, beating true and warm,
They aften tried the curlin' charm
To cheer the heart and nerve the arm-
The roarin' rink for me, boys.

May love and friendship crown our cheer
Wi' a' the joys to curlers dear;
We hae this nicht some heroes here,

We aye are blythe to see, boys.
A' brithers brave are they, I ween;
May fickle fortune, slippery queen,
Aye keep their ice baith clear and clean-
The roarin' rink for me, boys.

May health an' strength their toils reward, And should misfortune's gales blow hard, Our task will be to plant a guard

Or guide them to the tee, boys.
Here's three times three for curlin' scenes,
Here's three times three for curlin' freen's,
Here's three times three for beef an' greens
The roarin' rink for me, boys.

A' ye that love auld Scotland's name,
A' ye that love auld Scotland's fame,