ANDREW B. PICKEN. vidual in the unfortunate expedition to Poyais, and the sufferings and privations endured by himself and his companions during their voyage and on their landing are vividly described in several of his poems and sketches. On leaving this scene of his misfortunes he engaged with a mahogany merchant in one of the West India Islands, but soon becoming tired of the dull monotony of his new occupation he returned to his native land. 255 most of the principal cities of the Union, and passing through many vicissitudes of fortune, ultimately settled in Montreal, where he was well known as an artist and teacher of painting and drawing. Mr. Picken was a constant contributor to the newspapers and magazines of Montreal, and continued to be so until a short time before his death, which took place July 1, 1849. His principal poem is "The Bedouins," in three cantos. Of his prose tales that entitled "The Plague Ship" is considered the best. Several of this author's poetical compositions have been erroneously attributed to Andrew Picken, a native of Paisley, who wrote some occasional verses and several popular novels, including the Black Watch and the Dominie's In 1823 Picken published a collected edition of his poetical compositions, entitled "The Bedouins, and other Poems," and contributed a series of tales and sketches under the title of "Lights and Shadows of a Sailor's Life" to the Edinburgh Observer. In 1830 he left Scotland for the United States, and after visiting | Legacy. THE BEDOUINS. It is the hour that green Kashmeer Like a maiden's eyes, half locked in sleep, Tracking the long street and tall spire, (EXTRACT.) Like sunny clouds together twined Now is the hour when lovers meet The wearied sun-bee hymns his prayer, Ah! many a soft and silver tongue Now is the hour when token flowers And through the silken curtains peep And Peri hands, to groups that stray Are dropped from time to time to them THE HOME FEVER. A RECOLLECTION OF THE WEST INDIES. "Oh it's hame-an' it's hame, an' it's hame fain wad I be, Hame-hame-hame to my ain country." We sate in a green verandah's shade, That came there, with its low wild tones, at night, And that wind, with its tale of flowers, had come From the island groves away; And the waves, like wanderers returning home, To the beach came wearily: And the conch's far home call, the parrot's cry, Had told that the Sabbath of night was nigh. We sat alone in that trelliced bower, And gazed o'er the darkening deep; And the holy calm of the twilight hour Came over our hearts like sleep: There was a "worm i' the bud" whose fold Consumption's hectic plague-spot told A tale of a broken heart. The boy was dying-but the grave's long sleep He died; but memory's wizard power, With its ghost-like train, had come To the dark heart's ruins at that last hour, And he murmured, "Home! home! home!" Oh, talk of spring to the trampled flower, Of glory to those that in victory's hour But ye mock the exile's heart when ye tell MEXICO. And we dreamt of the "banks and bonny braes" I have come from the south, where the free That had gladden'd our childhood's careless days. And he, the friend by my side that sate, 'Mid the fields and the flowers of joy, that Fate, Like a mother, had smiled upon. But, alas! for the time when our hopes have wings, His home had been on the stormy shore His ear was tuned to the breakers' roar, And the torrent's din, and the howling breeze, They had told him tales of the sunny lands Now, that fruit and the river gems were near, streams flow 'Mid the scented valleys of Mexico; I have come from the vines and the tamarind bowers With their wild festoons and their sunny flowers, I have come from the south, where the landward breeze Comes laden with spices, to roam on the seas, I have roamed through those Indian wild woods oft I have stood by those shaded streams at night, And the hope he had chased 'mid the wilds of And the dead and the severed on memory crept, night, Had melted away like a firefly's light. Oh! I have watched him gazing long Where the homeward vessels lay, Cheating sad thoughts with some old song, And wiping his tears away! And well I knew that that weary breast, Like the dove of the deluge, pined for rest! With a tale of my youth, and I wept-I wept! Oh! could my footstep but wander now Oh, could I but feel on my brow once more ROBERT WHITE. ROBERT WHITE was born at Yetholm, Roxburghshire, in 1802. His youth was spent at Otterburn, in Redesdale, Northumberland, where his father cultivated a small farm. Robert was fond of reading, and their landlord, who had a good library, kindly allowed him the use of his books, and in 1825 obtained a clerk's situation for him with a tradesman in Newcastle. In 1850 his employer, who was a bachelor, died, and left his whole estate in Mr. White's hands as executor on behalf of his sister. Being a high-minded and honourable man, the lady reposed her entire confidence in him, and at her death, in the latter part of 1864,"she made me her executor, and left me quite independent. I live in a fine house of my own, situated in the best part of the town. I possess the best private library in the district, and after forty years' faithful work I have at my command more capital than I shall ever require." Mr. White, soon after his removal to Newcastle, became a frequent contributor both in prose and verse to the Newcastle Magazine. In 1829 the Typographical Society of Newcastle printed at their own cost his poem of "The Tynemouth Nun." In 1853 Mr. White printed 66 | for private circulation The Wind," another poem; and in 1856 he printed, also privately, England," a poem, which he dedicated to his generous benefactress. In 1857, having drawn up a full and authentic account of the Battle of Otterburn, it was published in a volume of 188 pages. In the same year he contributed to the Archæologia Æliana, issued by the Newcastle Society of Antiquaries, a full account of the battle of Neville's Cross, near Durham. In 1859 he contributed to the same work a sketch of the Battle of Flodden, with a list of all the noblemen and gentlemen of Scotland who fell in that memorable engagement. Mr. White in 1867 collected his poems, songs, and metrical tales, which were published at Kelso. Many of his lyrics are deservedly popular, and have obtained a place in numerous collections of Scottish song. He is well known as an enthusiastic antiquary, and has contributed both prose and verse to Richardson's Local Historian's Table-Book of Northumberland and Durham, and other works of an antiquarian character. In 1858 an edition of the poems and ballads of Dr. John Leyden was published, edited by Mr. White. "This jewell'd chaplet ye'll put on, That broider'd necklace gay; For we maun hae ye buskit weel On this, your bridal day." "Oh! Ellen, ye would think it hard To wed against your will! I never loo'd Lord Dacre yet; "He kens, though oft he sued for love "And he has gained my mother's ear, My father's stern command; Yet this fond heart can ne'er be his, Altho' he claim my hand. "Oh! Ellen, softly list to me! I still may 'scape the snare; When morning raise o'er Otterburne, The tidings would be there. "And hurrying on comes Umfreville,- "Ah! weel I ken his heart is true, He will he must be here: Aboon the garden wa' he'll wave The pennon o' his spear." "Far is the gate, the burns are deep, The broken muirs are wide; Fair lady, ere your true love come, Ye'll be Lord Dacre's bride. "Wi' stately, solemn step the priest Climbs up the chapel stair: Alas! alas! for Umfreville His heart may weel be sair! "Keep back! keep back! Lord Dacre's steed: in velvet sheen she wadna dress; Nae pearls o'er her shone; Nor broider'd necklace, sparkling bright, Up raise she frae her cushion'd seat, Her cheek grew like the rose, and then "O Ellen! throw the casement up, "Your father's stan'in' on the steps, Out thro' the gateway comes the train, Lord Dacre rides before. "Fu' yauld and gracefu' lichts he doun, "List! lady, list a bugle note! It sounds not loud but clear;Up! up! I see aboon the wa' Your true love's pennon'd spear!"- An' thro' amang the apple trees, Lord Dacre fain would see the bride, He sought her bower alane; Sair did her father stamp an' rage, MY NATIVE LAND. Fair Scotland, dear as life to me Are thy majestic hills; And sweet as purest melody The music of thy rills. The wildest cairn, the darkest dell, I breathed in youth thy bracing air Ah! precious is the dust of those With steadfast heart and hand Nor less thy martyrs I revere, Who spent their latest breath To seal the cause they held so dear, Shall mould the faith thy sons maintain, And thou hast ties around my heart— The minstrel's matchless skill: Mine own distinguished land! Due reverenced be thy bards each one, Far as the wind may sweep. O, when I wander'd far from thee, I mark'd thy forests waving free- I knew the honour'd band: We spoke of thee-thy fame-thy worth, Thou high-exalted land! What feelings through my bosom rush If prayer of mine prevail on high, MORNING. Awake, my love! the shades of night Arise, my dearest! come away! O come, my gentlest! come with me! Come forth, my love, the sky is blue: Welcome, my love! both land and sky Come, let us go! the brightest flower, |