Oh! the sea, the terrible sea!

How dreadful it looks with the land on the lee ;
See yon ill-fated barque now toss'd up on high,
Now descending like lightning shot forth from the sky-
Masts, everything gone. Is there no succour near,
No lifeboat at hand with a crew void of fear
To rescue these men from the merciless wave-
Seething, boiling, foaming?

Ah no! they are doomed to a watery grave.

See, she strikes on the shore with a shivering shock,
And to atoms is dashed on a ledge of the rock.
Merciful God! from the regions above
Send down Thy Spirit on wings of the Dove
To heal the bruised hearts of those who are left
To mourn their great loss; those so lately bereft
Of all they held dear. Be their comfort and stay,
Their guide and protector until that great Day
When the sea and the earth and all else pass away.

THE AULD STOCKIN' FIT.

Before ye settle doon in life you've mony things to learn,
Among the very foremost, tak' care o' what you earn;
Lay bye your every penny piece- -nane ever rued it yet-
And if ye hae nae better purse, just tak a stockin' fit.

Each penny saved's a penny gained, when added to the stock,
It mak's ye feel within yersel' as gude as ither folk;
You never need to skulk around, or in a corner sit;
There's an independent ring in a weel-filled stockin' fit.

You'll aye hae plenty friends around, while a' gangs fair and richt,

To flatter ye and daut ye, scarce let ye oot their sicht;

That may a' be very weel, but the best friend I've seen yet

Is Victoria's' winsome face in weel-filled stockin' fit.

Sair trouble may o'ertak ye-it's been aye the doom o' man-
And want o' wark or sickness may thwart your best-laid plan;
There's a Providence abune us a' that never failed me yet,
Sae put implicit faith in that and in your stockin' fit.

Try aye to help a neighbor that's bowed doon wi' sair distress,
He'd maybe do the same for you, so you can do nae less;
Ne'er turn the feeble frae your door, provide them sup and bit,
So may a blessin' aye attend upon your stockin' fit.

Be carefu', but no niggardly, gi'e every man his due,—
You'll hae to keep a sharp look-out, he does the same by you;
Aye drap the ither penny in, 'twill swell up bit by bit,
There's music in the jingle o' a weel-filled stockin' fit.

JOHN TAYLOR,

ARTIST and poet, Glasgow, was born near Hun

tingtower, Perth, in 1837. His father, James Taylor, who is referred to in page 174 of the present volume, was a prize-taker in several rhyming competitions; while his mother belonged to an old Perthshire stock, said by the family traditions to be connected with the Dalhousies. One relative was Provost of Perth about the beginning of the century, and another was a Royal chaplain and minister of St. Enoch's, Glasgow, for about forty years. In 1840 the family removed to Glasgow, where they have lived ever since.

66

The subject of this notice became a pupil teacher and Queen's scholar in the Free Normal Seminary, and on leaving it, in 1857, was engaged for a few years as a tutor in England. Previous to this, however, his inclination to both pen and pencil had become decided, and he had attempted portraits both in chalk and oil, as well as had a few short prose articles published. He spent a short time in France in 1860, and again in 1865. His first exhibited picture was a series of outline illustrations to Longfellow's "Excellsior" in the Glasgow Fine Art Institute, 1862. He continued to accept engagements as a visiting master, teaching drawing, &c., in several higher class schools, till 1867, when he finally gave up teaching. Though occasionally having pictures in other principal exhibitions, Mr Taylor has not had any in the Glasgow Institute since 1870. He has contributed to various periodicals, including the Art Journal, Chambers's Journal, Hedderwick's Miscellany, &c., and has had rhymes in Scotch, English, and Irish, as well as both eastern and western American newspapers; but he is perhaps best known by his poems and songs in the People's

Friend, and verses contributed to the newspapers. In Quiz, a Glasgow comic paper, several of his poems and a considerable number of sketches have appeared.

Mr Taylor has written numerous chastely-wrought lyrics, abounding in melodious cadences, and, generally speaking, his verses give evidence of skill and carefulness in the setting of poetic conceptions. He has not only the poetical faculty, but he possesses the artist's patience and taste.

TODDLEBONNY.

Wat ye wha I lo'e the best,
Far the best o' ony?
It's just a wee bit lauchin' lass,
They ca' her Toddlebonny.
Ye may look through a' the lan',
An' may see bairnies mony;
But nane ye'll see mair dear to me
Than wee Toddlebonny.

Toddle but, an' toddle ben,

Toddle, toddle, on aye;

Through the house an through the worl',
Toddle, Toddlebonny.

Roses in the garden grow,

An' cherries sweet as honey;

But rosy cheeks an' cherry mou'

Are sweeter far than ony.

Though the bairnie's wee she'll grow
As she toddles on aye;

Big an' braw, an' mair than a',
She'll be as guid as bonnie.
Toddle but, &c.

Little starries in the sky

Twinkle bricht an' bonny;

But twa wee lauchin' een Ï ken

Are brichter far than ony.

O the very sun itsel',

Shinin' doun upon ye,

Seems twice as bricht just wi' the sicht

O' wee Toddlebonny.

GOING TO A FUNERAL.

I'm going to a funeral,

But not, alas! to mourn;

The rest may leave when all is o'er,
But I shall ne'er return.

I'm going to a funeral,

And have been going long ;

I know not when nor where 'twill be,
But I shall not go wrong,
It may be soon, it may be late,
On land or on the sea;

But now or then, or here or there,
Belongeth not to me.

There may be few or many there,
But I not one shall see ;

And I'll be with them in the midst,
And none shall look on me.
No arm of mine shall help to bear
The coffin or the pall,

Yet in that company I'll be

The chief among them all.

Though others there may weep and wail, shall not shed a tear;

Their loudest cries of grief shall fail
To pierce my listless ear.

Though throbbing hearts convulsive leap,
Nigh bursting through the breast,

Mine shall give no responsive beat,
But calmly lie at rest.

Hopeful, or hopeless; loving, loved;

Old, young; or grave or gay; We all go to a funeral,

And none may bide away.

The brightest eye must lose its light,
The warmest heart grow cold;

The fairest form must feed the worm,
And wither in the mould.

All through the shadowy vale of Death
Must pass, yet why despond;

We know there can no shadow be
Without a light beyond.

And life's all-pure eternal light
Shines not this side the tomb;
Step cheerily then, we'll see it when
We've travelled through the gloom.

SWEET WAS THE TIME.

Sweet was the time when I roved on the mountain,

Or strayed wi' my true love at e'en in the glen,
Or thro' the green meadows, and down by the fountain,
O when, and O! where shall I meet him again :
Say have you seen him, my own love, my true love,
Weary I'm waiting, Ó where can he be?

He is my own love, my old love, my new love,
Weary I wait for him, Ochone a rie.

Ochone a rie! he is gane frae the mountain.
Ochone a rie ! he's no in the glen,

Nor in the green meadows, nor doun by the fountain,
O! when, and O! where shall I meet him again.

Fair was my love as the sunbeams o' mornin',
Stately and strong, and as braw as the best;
But better than beauty or outward adornin'

The kind lovin' heart that beat true in his breast.
Blythesome and happy we wandered thegither,

My true love and I, in the days that are gane :

Like the sunlicht o' life were we twa to each ither,
But noo it is gloamin' and I am alane.

Ochone a rie! he is gane frae the mountain-
Ochone a rie! he is no in the glen,

Nor in the green meadows, nor doun by the fountain;
O when, and O! where shall I meet him again.

AYE TO THE FORE.

When I was a laddie-that's lang, lang syne-
Oh, I was a steerin' ane, brawly I min';"
At schule, or at play, or some mischievous splore
Ye would see Donal' Morison aye to the fore;
Aye to the fore, aye to the fore,
Ye would see Donal' Morison aye to the fore.

And grown up to manhood it still was the same,
At kirk or at market, ootbye or at hame;
Whate'er was ado, 'deed, ye maist nicht hae swore
Ye would see Donal' Morison aye to the fore;
Aye to the fore, aye to the fore,

Ye would see Donal' Morison aye to the fore.

But manhood an' vigour maun baith wear awa',
An' weakness will maister the strongest o's a';
Yet frail though I be noo, an' turned o' fourscore,
Here is auld Donal' Morison aye to the fore;
Aye to the fore, aye to the fore,
Here is auld Donal' Morison aye to the fore.