His battle-steeds prancing and bounding, His standard in haughtiness streaming Around from his forest of spears: Our matron survivors are weeping, Their sucklings a prey to the sword; The blood of our martyrs is steeping The fanes where their fathers adored; The foe and the alien are reaping Fields, vineyards, the gift of the Lord! Our country! shall Midian enslave her, With the blood of the brave in our veins? Shall we crouch to the tyrant for ever, Whilst manhood-existence-remains? Shall we fawn on the despot? Oh, never!Like freemen, unrivet your chains! Like locusts our foes are before us, Encamped in the valley below; The sabre must freedom restore us, The spear, and the shaft, and the bow;The banners of Heaven wave o'er us,Rush!-rush like a flood on the foe! JEANIE'S WELCOME HAME. Let wrapt musicians strike the lyre, Pursue some high or holy theme: My darling Jeanie's welcome hame! Sweet is the morn of flowery May, When incense breathes from heath and wold When laverocks hymn the matin lay, And mountain-peaks are bathed in goldAnd swallows, frae some foreign strand, Are wheeling o'er the winding stream; But sweeter to extend my hand, And bid my Jeanie welcome hame! Poor collie, our auld-farrant dog, Will bark wi' joy whene'er she comes; And baudrons, on the ingle rug, Will blithely churm at "auld gray-thrums." The mavis, frae our apple-tree, Shall warble forth a joyous strain; The blackbird's mellow minstrelsy Maternal tears shall start for thee, I'll kiss thy beauteous brow once more; The fountain of thy father's love Is welling all its banks out o'er! THE SUN HAD SLIPPED. The sun had slipped ayont the hill, The hearth was sweepit fu' canty an' clean, When the cadgie laird o' Windlestraetown Cam' in for till haud his Hallowe'en. The gudewife beck'd, and the carle boo'd; "Now haud ye merry," quo' Windlestraetown, "I downa come here your sport to spill,Rax down the nits, ye unco like loon, For though I am auld, I am gleesome still: An' Lilias, my pet, to burn wi' me, Ye winna be sweer, right weel I ween, However it gangs my fate I'll dree, Since here I am haudin' my Hallowe'en." The pawky auld wife, at the chimly-cheek, Took courage an' spak', as a mither should do; "Noo haud up yer head, my dochter meek,— A laird comesna ilka night to woo! He'll make you a lady, and that right soon, I dreamt it twice owre, I'm sure, yestreen.""A bargain be't," quo' Windlestraetown,"It's lucky to book on Hallowe'en!" "I'll stick by the nits, for better, for waur,— Will ye do the like, my bonny May? Ye sall shine at my board like the gloaming star, An' gowd in gowpins ye's hae for aye!"The nits are cannilie laid on the ingle, Weel, weel are they tented wi' anxious een, And sweetlie in ase thegither they mingle; "Noo blessed for aye be this Hallowe'en!" JOHN NEVAY. BORN 1792-DIED 1870. JOHN NEVAY was born in the town of Forfar, January 28, 1792. He tells us that when a boy he loved to wander among the Grampians and by the streams, imbibing from the beauties of nature the spirit of poesy. His verses soon became locally known, and in 1818 he was induced to collect and publish them under the title of "A Pamphlet of Rhymes," which, being favourably received, was followed by a second collection in 1821. After an interval of ten years he brought out "Emmanuel: a Sacred Poem, in nine cantos, and other Poems," followed in a short time by "The Peasant: a Poem in nine cantos; with other Poems." In 1835 he published" The Child of Nature, and other Poems." In 1853 he printed by subscription a volume entitled "Rosaline's Dream, in four duans; and other Poems;" followed in 1855 by "The Fountain of the Rock: a Poem." Mr. Nevay's latest poems, entitled "Leisure Hours," are still in manuscript. He died in May, 1870, after having been favourably known in the literary world for half a century. He was of a very sensitive, retiring disposition, simple in all his manners and ways, and his life was a life of poverty and privation, Lorne bravely and uncomplainingly. In an autobiographic sketch, prepared by Nevay in 1866 for this volume, he remarks in conclusion: "The third and last epoch has yet to be written,-wherein there may be, now and then, a blink of summer sunshine breaking through the clouds of care and regret; and even through the rimy fog of disappointment, a glimpse of morning light may appear in the horizon of my destiny." He had the honour of being introduced as "John o' ye Girnal" by Christopher North in the Noctes Ambrosianæ, accompanied by a quotation from his beautiful poem of "The Yeldron." "I beg to mention," the venerable bard wrote to the Editor in his last letter, "sans vanity, that many of my lyrics have been translated into both the French and German languages. The French translator is the Chevalier de Chatelain. This you will allow is very gratifying to my muse. I am delighted to learn that you are so well pleased with the MS. pieces intended for insertion in your valuable and interesting work." THE FALL OF THE LEAF. The summer flowers are gone, The brown leaf drops, drops from the tree, That with a sullen spirit flows; Like lurid dream of troubled thoughts; The rain-wind blows. The summer birds are mute, And cheerless is the unsung grove; Whose Doric stop was touched to love, The hamlet fowls,-the cock not crows; Nor heard the pastoral bleat Of flocks, that whitened many hills; Stalk the dull choughs and crows; While mournfully, and drearily, The rain-wind blows. Thick on the unsunn'd lake Float, murmuringly, its blasted reeds; 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; The gloomy heaven's like Nature's shroud; There long decay hath been; Through the rank weeds, and nettles vile, Where Scotland's Queen was wont to smile; Was learned and pious; read the sacred page Nor vestige left of the Inch Tower; Nor that which charmed the roaming boy; The ancient Bush of glossy sloes: Like Eld weeping for a young maiden's woes; The rain-wind blows. Browse not the kine and horse; Thick glooms fall on the wood; A cold and thrilling sough is there; "Tis like the heart's mirk mood, For hapless worth, worth which the world not knows; O! blessed is the tear that flows, Like manna-dew from a celestial tree, Now happy-O how happy they, The toil-tired sons of honest industry, Who, by the cheerful hearth, 'mid children gay, 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-ecstacy! 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? Sings-heaven is mair blessed that lily to sec! Let us rove, Jessie, rove, for a' nature is bloom- | O the summer day's bright, green every bower, ing; The siller burns dance o'er the pebbles wi' glee; And flowers in their prime are the saft breeze perfuming; And blithe is the song of the silver stream; But brighter and blither the curfew-hour, When love was my dream. Oh, surely the flowers steal their fragrance O rich autumn's sun of the golden shower, from thee! 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; O sweet winter's hearth, while music's power O! brightest and sweetest o' the twenty-four, When the heart was young, and life seemed a dower, The maiden all lovely--my soul's esteem, Without love, life's summer joys ne'er would 'Twas heaven to tryst in the curfew-hour, we pree; Then let us, dear Jessie, con summer's sweet lesson, Our love like her bright dewy morn aye to be. Oh, then, let us saunter where a' things are loving When love was my dream. I cared not for wealth, I envied not rank; The air and the sunlight, and bird, flower, and I cared not for aught which the vain world pur 125 HEW AINSLIE. 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 "to harden joined this company, as he says, 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 For three years, all the poetry I cared for. 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 main- In 1864 Ainslie visited Scotland, after an 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 |