THE FLOWER GIRL.

I cheerily climb the steep path of the mountain,
To seek the bright blossoms of opening spring,
Then laden with treasures I sit by the fountain,
And twining sweet garlands I merrily sing,
Buy my sweet flow'rs,
Buy my sweet flow'rs,

Roses and Violets blue.
Buy my sweet flow'rs,

Buy my sweet flow'rs, flowers, flowers,
Flowers all spangled with dew.

While slumbering cities know nought of the dawning,
And sad hearts forget what awakening may bring,
I gather earth's sweets in the glad early morning,
Then homewards I hasten and merrily sing,
Buy my sweet flow'rs, &c.

Ye pining in sickness, in sorrow, and sadness,
With hearts overwhelm'd by care's darkening gloom,
O buy my sweet flowers, they'll whisper of gladness,
And tell of the blessings on life's pathway strewn.
Buy my sweet flowers, &c.

W. ARCHER.

T is not generally known that Mr Archer, of H.M. Customs, Dundee, is the modest author of a number of excellent patriotic, tender, and humorous poems and songs. Mr Archer assumes the nom-de-plume "Sagittarius." Before we knew the writer to be a most thoughtful and estimable man, possessed of many and varied attainments, we admired his productions. His themes are manifold, but most of them abound with considerable power, beauty, and originality of thought. Archer, who is a native of Carnoustie, was for some years before the mast," and by diligent and persevering study fitted himself for the situation he

Mr

now holds of an examining officer in Her Majesty's Customs.

The adoption of a nom-de plume has its advantages as well as its disadvantages. By its use a young and unknown writer is enabled to invite the public to judge of his compositions on their merits alone. On the other hand, where prejudice has stepped in, it becomes the only method by which he who has been anathematized may advantageously hold converse with the world. We have reason to believe that Mr Archer's verses have been widely appreciated by thoughtful readers, and we are thus glad to be able to remove the veil of anonimity.

BANNOCKBURN.

"Twas when the sun had but scant to climb
Of the tropic that crowns the year,
When he brings us the glorious summer time
And the twilight long and clear,

And pales that Northern star
Fast anchor'd in heaven above,

That bends from its home in those realms afar
Its radiant beams of love,

That a column from merry old England wound
The smouldering fields among,

Whose tread kept time to the trumpet's sound
And the warrior's jocund song.

Sure such a dread display
Of charger and crested helm

Ne'er danced to the gleams of the eastern ray
In Scotland's ancient realm.

There were haughty nobles of Norman blood,
And Flemings in lace and gold,

And Saxons were there like a river in flood,
With the Cymri lithe and bold;

And he who led them all

Was a proud Plantagenet

A name that had those of the Turk and Gaul
In war's dishonour set.

Such a mighty array of warlike power
"Tis the lot of few to see,

A host that paraded the chosen flower
Of England's chivalry,-

In truth a potent show

Of halbert and shaft and spear,
That Goliath-like ere it levelled a blow
Might win by dint of fear-

And their goal was Stirling's exalted towers,
That darkened the northern sky,

Whose garrison censured the lagging hours
That wearily laboured by.

For through long anxious days,

That had well nigh grown to years,

They had longed for the morn whose gladdening rays Would gild these coming spears.

And now in their panoplied pride they come,
They could see their chargers prance,

And they heard the beat of the marshalling drum,
And the clang of shield and lance.

And o'er each serried rank

They could see their leopards shine,

And they welcomed the shout that from flank to flank Rolled down the bristling line.

And well might they shout all in confident pride
At a foe so mean and poor-

A foe that would seem were it ranked by their side
An army in miniature.

But these so vast and bright

At ambition's injunctions roam,

While those whose meanness offends the sight

Stand up for hearth and home.

Then thundered these spearmen with murderous thrust On their foe despised and mean,

And showers of arrows and clouds of dust

Enveloped the frantic scene.

And din of clanging blows
Resounding from cloven mail,

And cries of St George and St Andrew arose
From out that dusky veil.

Though hopefully certain that garrison dwelt,
Still no deliverer came,

Yet but one result they in confidence felt
Could come of that deadly game.

In vain they tried to pierce
The gloom of that curtain gray,
Whence ever anon war's clamourings fierce
Swelled up and died away.

But when the fury of battle was spent,
And the wind had scattered that cloud,
Lo! strewn and begrimed and battered and rent
All lay in a ghastly crowd.

Those couchant leopards three
Had slipped from their eager sight,

And they witnessed a haughty Plantagenet flee
A craven from the fight.

And they saw, but bitterly cursed the fate
That their lot thus cruelly cast,

A token that to them did intimate
That England's domain was past—
That symbol of her crown
That floated those ramparts o'er,

Like an eagle transfixed come fluttering down,
To soar up there no more.

Go! carry, ye sons of the heath-covered mountain,
The tidings o'er valley and down;

Go! speed them along over river and fountain,
To village and castle and town;

Sound it o'er land and sea,
Transmit it from sire to son,

Spread it over the earth to whoe'er would be free That Bannockburn is won.

TO THE AZTECS.

Ye strangely, oddly-shapet creatures,
Wha own sic pointed, neb-like features,
Sic stunted Liliputian statures,
Sic doited-like an' docile natures,

Declare yer race

Which o' oor various nomenclatures
Shall meet yer case?

Come tell us, just to end the bather,
Wha was yer inither, wha yer father;
Why should we by conjecture gather
Where ye belang ;
Tell's yer mysterious lineage rather
Than let's gae wrang.

Yer hair, if cropped, wad suit a nigger,
The Hindoo race micht claim yer figger,
Yer nose is Israelite a rigour,

Yer lugs an' mou'

Are their's wha thrive by knife and trigger-
The Malay crew.

Say, uncommunicative fellow,

Did that dun skin 'tween broon an' yellow,
That shines like leather rubbed wi' tallow,
Come doon frae Sarah?

Or were they e'en fox-like an' sallow
Bequeathed by Pharoah?

Tell, if ye're frae some far aff planet,
Which ane, that oor savans inay scan it;
An' say hoo ye contrived to span it-
Heaven's arc sae spacious,
Yer reticence, depend upon it,
Is maist vexatious.

Ye twa sae fairy-like an' little,
Did sculptor cast ye o' bell metal,
Or did he carve you wi' his whittle
Oot o' mahogany sae brittle-

Tell's a' aboot ye;

Ye brawly could the question settle-
Wha could dispute ye.

Invention o' that rogue Auld Clootie,
Ye ance were gods to races sooty:
Say, were ye deities o' beauty,

Or what yer sphere?

That we, too, may perform oor duty
The while ye're here.

O Maxims; if what ye grunted
Is a' o' speech that's in ye planted,
Its dootless for yer gude ye want it-
Seek nane to borrow;

Just think what lots o' loons hae ranted
Sair to their sorrow.

An' Bartolo, may naething shorten
Yer halcyon days o' silent courtin',
A speechless wife yersel deportin',

What harm can steer ye ?
What coontless chiels wad waur a forten,
If their's could peer ye!

T

JOHN E. H. THOMSON.

HE Rev. J. E. H. Thomson, M.A., B.D., is a licentiate of the United Presbyterian Church, and was born in Glasgow in 1841. His childhood