When about the age of nineteen he was apprenticed to the pattern-drawing at Ruthven Printfield, then in its palmy days, and on becoming a journeyman he got an engagement for a year or two in London, afterwards removing to Glasgow, where he resided till his death in 1875. While an apprentice he made a design for a richly embroidered handkerchief, presented to the Queen at her coronation by a leading embroidery house.

He was one of a number of first-class designers who were at the head of their profession from twenty to forty years ago, when calico printing flourished in the west of Scotland, and not a few of whom were more or less known as rhymers. Mr Taylor was a successful competitor in several rhyming competitions, and although he was not a voluminous writer, his verses are all characterised by calm and thoughtful reflectiveness, and purity of tone.

WALLACE!

Ye bards of old Scotland, arouse from your slumbers!
Ye brave-hearted minstrels of freedom come forth!
Attune Scotia's harp to bold, soul-stirring numbers,
And sing of her Wallace-his valour and worth.

Of Wallace, the patriot, the brave, and the true
(Fair Liberty's champion, guardian, and guide),
Whose love for his country no power could subdue-
Old Scotland's defender-her glory and pride.

The hero of heroes, so mighty and peerless!

The dread of the despot! the boast of the brave!
Oppression's avenger! the faithful, the fearless!
The foe of the tyrant, the friend of the slave.

Strike boldly the harp, then, sing loudly and clearly,
Till Wallace' resound over mountain and vale ;
At the sound of the name the free cherish so dearly
The heart of the despot and tyrant shall quail.

Oh, Wallace thy spirit still lives in the world,
And ennobles the sons of thy dear native land;)
When their banners for freedom and right are unfurl'd
Their onset and valour no foe can withstand.

While the heather shall bloom and the thistle shall wave,
While Scotland, and freedom, and worth have a name,
While the Temple of Fame has a niche for the brave,
Thy glory, brave Wallace, the world shall proclaim.

CLOUDS.

Sweet breathings of morn, from earth ether-borne,
To bright sunny realms above,

Like angels of light, on a heavenward flight,
Bearing the incense of love.

In life's early dawn I have lain on the lawn,
And gazed with enraptured eye

On your sun-lit home, in the starry dome,
Afar in the azure sky,

And young fancy flew through the boundless blue,
And climbed up the bright sunbeams,

And journeyed afar, beyond sun, moon, or star,
And dreamt celestial dreams.

But the sun sped on, the bright vision was gone,
The Storm-king mounted the sky,

And the clouds flew past on the wings of the blast,
Cast down from their home on high.

So my youth's bright dreams, and fortune's sunny
gleams,

From Hope's high heaven were torn ;

But after the rain comes sunshine again,
And after the night comes morn.

ALEXANDER BROWN.

ANY will have noticed with interest the remarkably varied positions in life in which the Muse has found her votaries. We have given examples of the magistrate upon the bench, and the policemen in the street, the miner in the coal pit, and the retired merchant in the house of luxury. have seen that she has cast her mantle over the wife of the labouring man, who sings with the true

We

ring of the lights and shadows of the domestic hearth, as well as over the lady of high degree. Yet we have only before now found one sailor who could claim kindred to the Muses.

66

The subject of the present sketch was born in the village of Penicuik, near Edinburgh, in 1823. His father, a native of Arbroath, was a paper-maker there, and his mother was a daughter of the Rev. James Walker, Episcopal clergyman, Kirkcaldy, who had removed there from the vicinity of Stonehaven. In 1827 his parents flitted" to Currie, and Alexander was educated at the parish school there. When fourteen years of age, he went to Kirkcaldy, and served two years as clerk in an office, but a strong desire for a seafaring life seized him. He joined an Arbroath vessel, and served an apprenticeship to the sea-going through all its grades and vicissitudes. With the exception of five years spent in the United States and Canada, he followed this calling. Fever and ague compelled him to leave America, and the effects of that illness still, we regret to learn, cling to him.

It would appear that the first fruits of his pen were unlucky. During a voyage to the Cape his ship blew up, and the manuscripts he had been preparing for publication on his return home were burned. Again, while lying in Sydney, he re-wrote several of the best of them from memory, but, unfortunately, they, too, were doomed, for his next ship foundered on the New Zealand coast, and they were drowned. "Since then," he tells us, "I have been content to send a few fugitive pieces to the local and district newspapers, and have given up all thought of book-making. I do not think anyone

would care to invest in the lucubrations of an old ship-master." We hardly think Captain Brown is right, for we know that not only in Arbroath, where he resides and is held in high esteem, but in a very

wide circle, his thoughtful effusions are much admired. He wisely avoids overstrained language, and there is a tenderness and melody, and a simplicity of treatment, and a purity of language about many of his pieces that make them exceptionally pleasing.

IN THE KIRKYARD.

Hoo is it I see you sae aft sittin' there?

And hoo is't, puir lassie, ye're greetin' sae sair ?
I've seen you in sunshine, in wind, weet an' a',
But I've ne'er seen a smile on your young face ava'.

Can ye wonder to see me whiles shedding a tear,
When the dearest, best friend I could hae's lyin' here;
To play wi' the young doesna suit me ava;
Hoo can I, since death's taen my mither awa.

When she was alive I could hardly dae wrang,
Sae merry and cheery, sae blythely I sang;
I was dawted and petted by ane and by a';
There's nane o' that noo since my mither's awa'.

The auntie I bide wi's no gude to me noo;

When she rages and flytes my heart loups to my mou';
I've nae father, nae brither, nae sister ava,

Nane to speak a kind word since my mither's awa'.

She has bairns o' her ain, and when onything's wrang,
"Twas Jeannie that did it's forever the sang;
Her ain can dae nae kind o' mischief ava,
It's Jeannie, the cuttie, that aye does it a'.

There's naething but Jeannie, dae this and dae that;
If I say but a'e word, it's-" Ye impudent brat,

How daur you speak back; ye're sune learnin' to craw;
To the puirhoose I'll send ye directly awa'."

A burden I'm ca'd; she gets nought for her pains,
Tho' she's takin' what's mine to cleid her ain weans;

I maun wear their auld duds-I get naething that's braw,
Tho' my mither left plenty to pay her for a'.

I neither can gang to the kirk nor the schule;
Their ill-fittin' rags gar me look like a fule;
I wad only be jeered at by ane and by a';
My life's fairly changed since my mither's awa'.

Ilka chance that I get I come aye rinnin' here;
Tho' I canna see her, still her spirit is near;
I believe that she sees me and hears me an' a';
It cheers me to think sae since mither's awa'.

But for that, on her grave I could lay mysel' doun,
And send up a prayer to my Maker abune,

To set me asleep, ne'er to wauken ava,

For in life I've nae joy since my mither's awa'.

THE BEAUTIFUL SEA.

O the sea, the beautiful sea!

Home of the brave, the dauntless, and free;
Murmuring low as it breaks on the sand,
Gently curling in waves on the strand,-
Flowing, ebbing, rippling along-
Beautiful sea, can it do any wrong?

So harmless and tempting it seems to the eye
That the timid and wavering often will try
To launch on its bosom, and laughing at fear,-
Ne'er dreaming a moment that danger is near;
So lovely to look on, it never can be
That a shadow of danger arises from thee-
Glittering, shining, never at rest,
Wave chasing wave with its sparkling crest.
Glorious it looks at the dawning of day,
Fann'd by light airs on its surface at play;
Kiss'd by the sunbeams, burnished like gold,
Sparkling like diamonds or silver untold.
See yon glad fishermen toiling along,
Cheering each other with jest and with song;
See their swift boats like meteors flash by,
Bright for a moment, then lost to the eye-
Dancing, skimming, bounding so free
Over the crest of the beautiful sea.

The sea so limpid and pure to the eye,
Reflecting the colours and shades of the sky;
Giving life to the feeble, and strength to the weak,
Refreshing the roses that fade from the cheek

Of the old and the young, or all who deplore

The loss of that bloom which nought else can restore;
E'en the timorous maiden takes courage at last
To dip down her head till the wavelet has past-
Dashing, splashing, with frolicsome glee,
Laving her form in the beautiful sea.

But mark a swift change. Ere the day's well begun
Dark clouds roll along o'er the face of the sun,
The storm-fiend bursts forth, and in maddening glee
Spreads death and destruction wide o'er the wild sea.
Where now is the boat that so gaily flash'd past?
The song of her crew is now hushed-'twas their last,
And their shriek of despair rises high on the blast-
Struggling, gurgling, their spirits are free,
Their bodies engulphed by the treacherous sea.