frequent contributor to newspapers and literary journals. In the autumn of 1881 he collected his pieces with a view to publication, which resulted in Galloway Gleanings " appearing in December of the same year. Although we can appreciate selfabnegation, we think the quality of the poetry scarcely called for those modest lines "To the Reader: ". Some poets heich can tak' their flicht, By fleein' laich, tak' tent, I micht Hae shorter fa'. His productions are above the average of "poet's corner "effusions. They give evidence of true sympathy with Nature, and, as might be expected, they possess a sweet musical flow. I'M SLIDIN' DOUN THE BRAE. I'm slidin' doun the brae o' life, Wi' feeble frame, an' totterin' step, Twice forty-twa lang years I've seen, But hope aye keeps my spirits licht My thochts flit aft to Ane abune, Lang borne me on, thro' ups and douns He aye my stay has been. My memory noo belies me sair, It usedna to be sae; Dim are my een, ance sparklin' bricht I'm slidin' doun the brae. Tho' memory fails, I yet can min' The days when I was young; Ay! aften-times like siller-cluds Waes me! what changes time brings roun', Has tint langsyne its raven look- The tide o' life is ebbin' noo, Turn dry an' yieldy 'neath my feet- Fast, fast my days are wearin' thro', But since ayont the valley dark THE SEASONS. The birds in spring O springtime they are fain, O' winter days are gane. Wi' summer fair Deck'd oot in flowers sae braw, She aye has been The fairest queen Amang the seasons a'. Noo autumn's here, The leaves are sear, An' trees will sune be bare ; The sun shines bricht nae mair. In winter grey The sun's pale ray Is cheerless, dowie, sad, To ilka thing Sma' warmth does bring, Nor can the heart mak' glad. The spring o' life, Its simmer time is fair, But autumn sear, An' winter drear, Bring wi' them mony a care. LAND OF WONDROUS STORY. Land of wondrous story, Surrounds the throne above. Chorus.-There we'll meet, there we'll meet, Land of dazzling brightness, Chorus.-There we'll meet, &c. Land of flowers undying, Land devoid of sighing, No sorrow enters there. Chorus.-There we'll meet, &c, Land of richest treasure, Land of holy pleasure, Where dwell the ransomed blest. Chorus.-There we'll meet, &c. Land where friends ne'er sever, Chorus.-There we'll meet, &c. Land of martyrs !-still unbending Striving drooping hearts to cheer. To do all the good we can. Land of mountain torrents, foaming, Where they leap with gushing sound. Scotia land of lake and river, Shady dells and murm'ring streams, WHAT AILS ME NOO? Alang the braes whaur gowden broom A burnie rins, its waters clear Her couthie ways, her winnin' smiles, For artless charms are a' her ain, Wi' heart sae leal, her simple trust Oh! wer't but noo the happy time MRS LOUISA ROBERTSON, ISTER of the subject of the foregoing sketch, was born in the village of Auchencairn, Kirkcudbrightshire, in 1851, and has written numerous poems possessing a musical ring and a geniality of phraseology and sentiment, bearing the familiar signature of "Louisa." She attended school until she was sixteen, and from an early age gave evidence of a great love for, and an ambition to collect wild flowers, grasses, and ferns. She spent much of her time, along with her poetic brother, in gathering Nature's nurslings of the woods and the sea-shore. Frequently the best specimens grew beyond their reach, when the brother would mount on her shoulders, and thus obtain the coveted treasure. Her first poem was written when she was fifteen, and was inserted in the Kirkcudbright Advertiser. Ever since that time she has written for numerous newspapers, and her pieces, with the initials “ 'L. S.," or the signature "Lousia," have for years been wellknown and admired. Sometime ago they attracted the attention of a literary gentleman travelling through Scotland for the purpose of securing a copy of every volume of poems published since 1870. Although the cares of a young family now press upon her mind, she still sings cheerily, and many of her more recent productions suggest pictures of bright fireside comforts, thoughts of daily experience, and a deep-rooted love of scenery and natural objects. They embrace a multiplicity of subjects, and many of them are treated in a very felicitous style. THE FLITTIN' AWA'. Oh! sad were we a' when the day cam' aboot |