The knave ye would scorn, the unfaithfu' deride; Ye would stand like a rock, wi' the truth on your side;

Sae would I, an' nought else would I value a straw;

Then gi'e me your hand-we are brethren a'.

Ye would scorn to do fausely by woman or man;
I haud by the right aye, as weel as I can;
We are ane in our joys, our affections, an' a';
Come, gi'e me your hand-we are brethren a'.

Your mither has lo'ed you as mithers can lo'e; An' mine has done for me what mithers can do; We are ane high an' laigh, an' we shouldna be twa: Sae gi'e me your hand-we are brethren a'.

We love the same simmer day, sunny and fair! Hame!-oh, how we love it, an' a' that are there! Frae the pure air o' heaven the same life we draw

Come, gi'e me your hand-we are brethren a’.

Frail, shakin' auld age, will soon come o'er us baith,

An' creeping alang at his back will be death; Syne into the same mither-yird we will fa'; Come, gi'e me your hand-WE ARE BRETHREN A'.

THE HERD LASSIE.

I'm fatherless and motherless,
There's nane on earth to care for me;
And sair and meikle are the waes
That in the warld I maun dree.
For I maun work a stranger's wark,
And sit beside a stranger's fire;
And cauld and hunger I maun thole
From day to day, and never tire!
And I maun herd frae morn to e'en,
Though sleety rain upon me fa',
And never murmur or complein-
And be at ilka body's ca'.
I needna deck my gowden hair,

Nor mak' mysel' sae fair to see,
For I'm an orphan lassie puir-

And who would look or care for me?

The lave ha'e mithers gude and kind,

And joyful is ilk daughter's heart; The lave ha'e brithers steve and strang, To haud ilk loving sister's part. But I'm a puir man's orphan bairn, And to the ground I laigh must bow, An' were it nae a sinfu' wish,

Oh! I could wish the warld through!

The caller summer morning brings

Some joy to this wae heart o' mine; But I the joy o' life wad leave,

If I could wi' it sorrow tine.
My mother said, in Heaven's bliss

E'en puir herd lassies had a share;

I wish I were where mither is

Her orphan then would greet nae mair!

BE STILL, THOU BEATING HEART.

Be still, be still, thou beating heart,—
Oh cease, ye tears, that fill my e'e;
In warldly joys I ha'e nae part-

Nae blithesome morning dawns for me.
I ance was glad as summer winds,
When fondling 'mang the grass sae green;
But pleasure now hath left my breast-
I am na' like what I ha'e been.

I ance was loved,I loved again
The spreest lad in a' our glen;
I kent na' then o' care or pain,
Or burning brow, or tortured brain.
I braided then my flowing hair,
I had o' love and peace my fill;
Deep, deep I drank—but a' has gane—
Oh, cease thy beating;-heart, be still!
Why should two hearts together twined
Be sever'd by stern fate's decree?
Why doth the brightest star of mind
Oft turn its darkest cloud to be?
My Jamie left his native glen,

My silken purse wi' gowd to fill;
But ob, he ne'er came back again—

Oh, cease thy beating;-heart, be still!

Why should I longer watch and weep?
Hame, hame to yonder glen I'll gae;
There in my bridal bed I'll sleep.

Made i' the kirkyard cauld and blac.
I'll soon, soon wi' my Jamie meet,

Where sorrow has nae power to kill; Earth's waes are past-and my poor heart Will soon have peace--will soon be still.

THE PLACE THAT I LOVE BEST.

Where the purple heather blooms
Amang the rocks sae gray-
Where the moorcock's whirring flight
Is heard at break of day-

Where Scotland's bagpipes ring Alang the mountain's breastWhere laverocks lilting sing,

Is the place that I love best!

Where the lonely shepherd tends His bleating hill-side flock-Where the raven bigs its nest

In the crevice of the rockWhere a guardian beacon-tower

Seems ilk rugged mountain's crest, To watch aboon auld Scotland's glens, Is the place that I love best!

Where the shepherd's reeking cot
Peeps from the broomy glen-
Where the aik-tree throws its leaves

O'er the lowly but an' ben-
Where the staunch auld-warld honesty
Is in the puir man's breast,
And truth a guest within his hame,
Is the place that I love best!

Where the gray-haired peasant tells
The deeds his sires have done,
Of martyrs slain in Scotland's muirs,
Of battles lost and won-
Wherever prayer and praise arise

Ere toil-worn men can rest,
From each humble cottage fane,
Is the place that I love best!

Where my ain auld mither dwells,

And longs ilk day for me-While my father strokes his reverend head, Whilk gray eneuch maun be--Where the hearts in kirkyards rest

That were mine when youth was blest, As we rowed amang the gowans,

Is the place that I love best!

Where the plover frae the sky

Can send its wailing sang, Sweet mingled wi' the burnie's gush That saftly steals alangWhere heaven taught to ROBERT BURNS Its hymns in language drestThe land of Doon-its banks and braesIs the place that I love best!

Where the straths are fair and green,
And the forests waving deep-
Where the hill-top seeks the clouds-
Where the caller tempests sweep—
Where thoughts of freedom come,
To me a welcome guest-
Where the free of soul were nursed,
Is the place that I love best!

THE PUIR FOLK.

Some grow fu' proud o'er bags o' gowd,
And some are proud o' learning:
An honest poor man's worthy name
I take delight in earning.
Slaves needna try to run us down –
To knaves we're unco dour folk;
We're aften wrang'd, but, deil may care!
We're honest folk, though puir folk!

Wi' Wallace wight we fought fu' weel,
When lairds and lords were jinking;
They knelt before the tyrant loon-

We brak his crown, I'm thinking.
The muckle men he bought wi' gowd-
Syne he began to jeer folk;
But neither swords, nor gowd, nor guile
Could turn the sturdy puir folk!

When auld King Charlie tried to bind
Wi' airn, saul and conscience,
In virtue o' his right divine,

An' ither daft-like nonsense;
Wha raised at Marston such a stour,

And made the tyrants fear folk?
Wha prayed and fought wi' Pym and Noll?
The trusty, truthfu' puir folk!

Wha ance upon auld Scotland's hills
Were hunted like the paitrick,
And hack'd wi' swords, and shot wi' guns,
Frae Tummel's bank to Ettrick,-
Because they wouldna let the priest

About their conscience steer folk?
The lairds were bloodhounds to the clan-
The martyrs were the pair folk!

When Boston boys at Bunker's Hill
Gart slavery's minions falter;
While ilka hearth in a' the bay

Was made fair freedom's altar;
Wha fought the fight, and gained the day?
Gae wa', ye knaves! 'twas our folk:
The beaten great men served a king-
The victors a' were puir folk!

We sow the corn and haud the plough-
We a' work for our living;

We gather nought but what we're sown—
A' else we reckon thieving:-
And for the loon wha fears to say
He comes o' lowly, sma' folk,
A wizen'd saul the creature has-
Disown him will the puir folk!
Great sirs, and mighty men o' earth,
Ye aften sair misca' us;

And hunger, cauld, and poverty

Come after ye to thraw us.
Yet up our hearts we strive to heeze,
In spite o' you and your folk;
But mind, enough's as gude's a feast,
Although we be but puir folk!

We thank the Powers for gude and ill,
As gratefu' folk should do, man;
But maist o' a' because our sires

Were tailors, smiths, and ploughmen.
Good men they were, as staunch as steel-
They didna wrack and screw folk:
Wi' empty pouches-honest hearts-
Thank God, we come o' poor folk!

The worthless day I heed not; but in hours
Of gushing noontide joy, it may be some
Will dwell upon my name; and I will be
A happy spirit there, affection's look to see.

Death is upon me, yet I fear not now;-
Open my chamber-window-let me look

Upon the silent vales-the sunny glow That fills each alley, close, and copsewood nook;

I know them-love them-mourn not them to leave,

Existence and its change my spirit cannot grieve!

JAMES HEDDERWICK was born in Glasgow, January 18, 1814.1 At an early age he was put to the printing business in his father's establishment. His tastes, however, being more literary than mechanical, he became dissatisfied with his position, and devoted all his leisure hours to study and composition, contributing in prose and verse to various newspapers and periodicals. In his sixteenth year he went to London. While there he at tended the university, and gained the first prize in the rhetoric class. Before he was twenty-three he became sub-editor of the Scotsman newspaper. In 1842 he returned to his native city and established the Glasgow Citizen, a weekly newspaper which long maintained a respectable position. In this journal Alexander Smith made his first appearance as a poet, and in later years poor David Gray first saw his beautiful lines in its columns,

Previous to leaving Edinburgh Mr. Hedderwick was entertained at a public dinner, at which the late Mr. Charles Maclaren, editor of the Scotsman, presided, and Mr. John Hill Burton, advocate, officiated as croupier, while the company included many literary men and

artists of distinction. In 1844 he collected some of his poems which had appeared at various times in different periodicals, and published them in an elegant volume. After the death of the gifted David Gray Mr. Hedderwick prepared a most interesting memoir of his life, which was prefixed to his poems, together with an introductory notice written by Mr. Richard Monckton Milnes (now Lord Houghton). In 1859 Mr. Hedderwick published another vol ume of poems, under the title of Lays of Middle Age. From this, his principal work, we make the subjoined selections.

In 1864 Mr. Hedderwick established the Evening Citizen, one of the first Scottish balfpenny daily newspapers, which under his control maintains a high character, and is said to have the largest circulation of any daily paper

in Scotland.

They tell me first and early love
Outlives all after dreams;

But the memory of a first great grief
To me more lasting seems;

The grief that marks our dawning youth To memory ever clings,

And o'er the path of future years

A lengthen'd shadow flings.

months, my father having emigrated thither with his

-ED.

Oh, oft my mind recalls the hour

When to my father's home
Death came-an uninvited guest-
From his dwelling in the tomb!
I had not seen his face before,
I shudder'd at the sight,
And I shudder still to think upon

The anguish of that night!

A youthful brow and ruddy cheek
Became all cold and wan;

An eye grew dim in which the light
Of radiant fancy shone.

Cold was the cheek, and cold the brow,
The eye was fix'd and dim;

And one there mourn'd a brother dead
Who would have died for him!

I know not if 'twas summer then,
I know not if 'twas spring,

But if the birds sang on the trees
I did not hear them sing!

If flowers came forth to deck the earth,
Their bloom I did not see;

I look'd upon one wither'd flower,
And none else bloom'd for me!

A sad and silent time it was
Within that house of woe,
All eyes were dull and overcast,
And every voice was low!
And from each cheek at intervals
The blood appear'd to start,
As if recall'd in sudden haste
To aid the sinking heart!

Softly we trod, as if afraid

To mar the sleeper's sleep,

And stole last looks of his pale face

For memory to keep!

With him the agony was o'er,

And now the pain was ours,

As thoughts of his sweet childhood rose Like odour from dead flowers!

And when at last he was borne afar

From the world's weary strife, How oft in thought did we again

Live o'er his little life!

His every look-his every word

His very voice's tone-

Come back to us like things whose worth
Is only prized when gone!

The grief has pass'd with years away,
And joy has been my lot;
But the one is oft remember'd
And the other soon forgot.
The gayest hours trip lightest by,
And leave the faintest trace;

But the deep, deep track that sorrow wears Time never can efface!

THE EMIGRANTS.

The daylight was dying, the twilight was dreary, And eerie the face of the fast-falling night, But closing the shutters, we made ourselves cheery With gas-light and firelight, and young faces bright.

When, hark! came a chorus of wailing and anguish!

We ran to the door and look'd out through the dark;

Till gazing, at length we began to distinguish The slow-moving masts of an ocean-bound bark.

Alas! 'twas the emigrants leaving the river,

Their homes in the city, their haunts in the dell; From kindred and friends they had parted for

ever,

But their voices still blended in cries of farewell.

We saw not the eyes that their last looks were taking;

We heard but the shouts that were meant to

be cheers,

But which told of the aching of hearts that were

breaking,

A past of delight and a future of tears.

And long as we listen'd, in lulls of the night breeze,

On our ears the sad shouting in faint music fell, Till methought it seem'd lost in the roll of the

white seas,

And the rocks and the winds only echoed farewell.

More bright was our home-hearth, more bright and more cosy,

As we shut out the night and its darkness once

more;

But pale were the cheeks, that so radiant and rosy, Were flush'd with delight a few moments before.

So I told how the morning, all lovely and tender, Sweet dew on the hills, and soft light on the

sea,

Would follow the exiles and float with its splendour,

To gild the far land where their homes were to be.

In the eyes of my children were gladness and gleaming,

Their little prayer utter'd, how calm was their

sleep!