Nor ends with life; but nods in sable plumes,
Adorns our hearse, and flatters on our tombs.

Allan Ramsay.

Born 1686.

Died 1758.

THIS Scottish poet was born in 1686 at Leadhills, a small village in Lanarkshire, where his father held the situation of manager in a leadmine. He remained there till he was fifteen, when he was apprenticed to a wig-maker in Edinburgh. It was not till he was twenty-six years of age that he commenced writing poetry; when an address to "The Easy Club" brought him into notice. He wrote various light humorous pieces, which were sold separately at a penny each, and which became very popular; he was so successful in this mode of publishing, that he set up a shop as a regular bookseller and publisher. Various small

pieces came from his pen, till, in 1726, appeared his celebrated pastoral drama, "The Gentle Shepherd." It was received with universal approbation, not only in Scotland, but in England and Ireland. Gay and Pope both admired the poem greatly. Ramsay now attempted an adventure, never yet known in Scotland, a circulating library, which succeeded well. He also attempted to set up a theatre; but the dislike to it was so great that it was put down, and he lost a good deal of money in the speculation. In 1743 his circumstances enabled him to build a house on the Castle Hill of Edinburgh, which is called Ramsay Lodge to this day. He died there on the 7th January 1758, in the seventy-second year of his age.

LOCHABER NO MORE.

FAREWELL to Lochaber, and farewell my Jean,
Where heartsome with thee I've mony day been;
For Lochaber no more, Lochaber no more,
We'll maybe return to Lochaber no more.
These tears that I shed they are a' for my dear,
And no for the dangers attending on weir;
Though borne on rough seas to a far bloody shore,
Maybe to return to Lochaber no more.

Though hurricanes rise, and rise every wind,
They'll ne'er make a tempest like that in my mind;
Though loudest o' thunder on louder waves roar,
That's naething like leaving my love on the shore.
To leave thee behind me my heart is sair pained;
By ease that's inglorious no fame can be gained;
And beauty and love's the reward of the brave,
And I must deserve it before I can crave.

Then glory, my Jeanie, maun plead my excuse;
Since honour commands me, how can I refuse?
Without it I ne'er can have merit for thee,
And without thy favour I'd better not be.
I gae then, my lass, to win honour and fame,
And if I should luck to come gloriously hame,
I'll bring a heart to thee with love running o'er,
And then I'll leave thee and Lochaber no more.

ON MARRIAGE.

(From the "Gentle Shepherd.")

Peggy. Sic coarse-spun thoughts as thae want pith to move My settled mind; I'm ower far gane in love.

Patie to me is dearer than my breath;

But want o' him, I dread nae other skaith.
There's nane o' a' the herds that tread the green
Has sic a smile, or sic twa glancing een :
And then he speaks wi' sic a taking art-
His words they thirl like music through my heart.
How blithely can he sport, and gently rave,
And jest at feckless fears that fright the lave!
Ilk day that he's alane upon the hill,

He reads fell books that teach him meikle skill.
He is-- But what need I say that or this?
I'd spend a month to tell you what he is!

In a' he says or does, there's sic a gate,
The rest seem coofs compared wi' my dear Pate.
His better sense will lang his love secure;
Ill-nature hefts in sauls that's weak and poor.
Jenny. But poortith, Peggy, is the warst o' a';
Gif o'er your heads ill-chance should begg'ry draw,
But little love or canty cheer can come
Frae duddy doublets, and a pantry toom.
Your nowt may die-the spate may bear away
Frae aff the holms your dainty rucks o' hay.
The thick-blawn wreaths o' snaw, or blashy thows,
May smoor your wathers, and may rot your ewes.
A dyvour buys your butter, woo, and cheese,
But, or the day o' payment, breaks, and flees.
Wi' gloomin' brow, the laird seeks in his rent;
It's no to gie: your merchant's to the bent.
His honour maunna want--he poinds your gear;

Syne, driven frae house and hald, where will ye steer?
Dear Meg, be wise, and live a single life;
Troth, it's nae mows to be a married wife.

Peggy. May sic ill-luck befa' that silly she
Wha has sic fears, for that was never me.
Let fouk bode weel, and strive to do their best;
Nae mair's required; let Heaven mak out the rest.
I've heard my honest uncle aften say,

That lads should a' for wives that's virtuous pray;
For the maist thrifty man could never get
A well-stored room, unless his wife wad let:
Wherefore nocht shall be wanting on my part,
To gather wealth to raise my shepherd's heart:
Whate'er he wins, I'll guide wi' canny care,
And win the vogue at market, tron, or fair,
For halesome, clean, cheap, and sufficient ware.
A flock o' lambs, cheese, butter, and some woo,
Shall first be sald to pay the laird his due;
Syne a' behind's our ain. Thus, without fear,
Wi' love and rowth, we through the warld will steer;
And when my Pate in bairns and gear grows rife,
He'll bless the day he gat me for his wife.

Jenny. But what if some young giglet on the green,
Wi' dimpled cheeks and twa bewitching een,
Should gar your Patie think his half-worn Meg,
And her kenned kisses, hardly worth a feg?

Peggy. Nae mair o' that-Dear Jenny, to be free, There's some men constanter in love than we: Nor is the ferly great, when nature kind Has blest them wi' solidity o' mind. They'll reason calmly, and wi' kindness smile, When our short passions wad our peace beguile: Sae, whensoe'er they slight their maiks at hame, It's ten to ane the wives are maist to blame. Then I'll employ wi' pleasure a' my art To keep him cheerfu', and secure his heart. At e'en, when he comes weary frae the hill, I'll ha'e a' things made ready to his will; In winter, when he toils through wind and rain, A bleezing ingle, and a clean hearthstane; And soon as he flings by his plaid and staff, The seething pat's be ready to tak aff; Clean hag-a-bag I'll spread upon his board,

And serve him wi' the best we can afford;
Good-humour and white bigonets shall be
Guards to my face, to keep his love for me.

Jenny. A dish o' married love right soon grows cauld, And dosens down to nane, as fouk grow auld.

Peggy. But we'll grow auld thegither, and ne'er find The loss o' youth, when love grows on the mind. Bairns and their bairns mak sure a firmer tie, Than aught in love the like of us can spy. See yon twa elms that grow up side by side, Suppose them some years syne bridegroom and bride; Nearer and nearer ilka year they've prest, Till wide their spreading branches are increast, And in their mixture now are fully blest: This shields the ither frae the eastlin blast, That, in return, defends it frae the wast. Sic as stand single-a state sae liked by you!Beneath ilk storm, frae every airt, maun bow.

Jenny. I've done—I yield, dear lassie; I maun yield; Your better sense has fairly won the field.

THE POET'S WISH.

FRAE great Apollo, poet say,

What is thy wish, what wadst thou hae,

When thou bows at his shrine?

Not Carse o' Gowrie's fertile field,

Nor a' the flocks the Grampians yield,

That are baith sleek and fine:

Not costly things brought frae afar,

As ivory, pearl, and gems;

Nor those fair straths that watered are
With Tay and Tweed's smooth streams,
Which gentily, and daintily,

Pare down the flow'ry braes,

As greatly, and quietly,
They wimple to the seas.

Whaever by his canny fate
Is master of a good estate,
That can ilk thing afford,
Let him enjoy't withoutten care,
And with the wale of curious fare
Cover his ample board.

Much dawted by the gods is he,
Wha to the Indian plain
Succesfu' ploughs the wally sea,
And safe returns again,
With riches, that hitches
Him high aboon the rest
Of sma' fowk, and a' fowk,
That are wi' poortith prest.

For me, I can be well content
To eat my bannock on the bent,
And kitchen't wi' fresh air;
Of lang-kail I can make a feast,
And cantily haud up my crest,
And laugh at dishes rare.
Nought frae Apollo I demand,

But through a lengthened life
My outer fabric firm may stand,
And saul clear without strife.
May he then, but gi'e then,
Those blessings for my share;
I'll fairly, and squarely,
Quit a', and seek nae mair.

Alexander Pope.

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Born 1688.

Died 1744.

THIS celebrated poet was born on 22d May 1688, in Lombard Street, London; his father was a linen-draper, in good circumstances. Pope claims to be of gentle descent, but of this there is scarcely any evidence. Pope was a Roman Catholic, and was educated at the Roman Catholic Seminary at Twyford, near Winchester. So early as the age of twelve he wrote his ode to "Solitude," and at sixteen he had commenced his Pastorals-which brought him into acquaintance with the eminent men of his times. In 1711 appeared his "Essay on Criticism," one of the finest pieces of argumentative poetry in the language. Shortly after he published the "Rape of the Lock," "Windsor Forest," and then commenced his translation of the "Iliad ;" this was so successful that he cleared by it above L.5000. He then, with the assistance of two friends, translated the "Odyssey," on which he gained about L.3000. In 1717 Pope removed to a villa at Twickenham, of which he had taken a lease, and which he made his residence during the rest of his life. In 1727-8 he published some Miscellanies, which drew upon him a volley of lampoons and libels. Pope's spirit rose to the occasion, and he pilloried the authors of the lampoons in the "Dunciad;" this was published in 1729, and created an immense sensation. In 1731-5 he published his great work, the "Essay on Man." From this time to the end of