An' sair were oor hearts when we drove frae the door,
We gaed back an' ance mair the rooms looket owre,
Then dreamily bade a' the neighbours gude day;
We scarce could believe we were flittin' away.

Then we stay'd a lang time i' the kirkyard near,
Whaur father was buried within the last year,
An' soun' by his side sleep oor wee sisters twa-
Nae won'er we grat at the flittin' awa'.

E'en the blackbird look'd sad, and droop'd low his wing,
As he pensively watch'd, but tried na to sing;

He seem'd just as dowie as when it was snaw-
I'm thinkin' he guess'd we were flittin' awa'.

Nae mair oor wee lambs we'll watch skip owre the knowes;
We'll noo hae the sea, wi' its ebbs and its flows.

My mither will weary, and e'en sae will we,
For dreary at nicht is the sang o' the sea.

Contentment is better than riches wi' strife;
Sae proudly we'll breast the rough breakers o' life,
An' happy we'll be in our humble bit ha',
An' calmly look back to the flittin' awa'.

We'll trust to the "Pilot" to guide us safe hame,
An' land us at rest 'yont life's treacherous faem;
For youth passes fast, then we totter awa'
In auld age, and then comes the flittin' o' a'.

"LANG SYNE."

Just noo it is the gloamin', an' I sit here a' my lane,

But I'm thinkin' o' the aul' hoose an' the dear aul' folks at hame : I picture noo each cosy nook, the cheerfu' ingle side,

The flowers 'ranged on the winnock sill, my mither's joy an' pride.

An' let me, ere the daylicht fades, in thocht but look abroad
O'er ilka bank an' flowery brae, whaur Scottish bluebells nod;
An', oh! the purple heather, that noo waves o'er hill an' plain,
Brings mony happy days to mind that ne'er will come again.
Hoo aft I've sat an' listen'd to the wimplin' burnie's soun',
An' mix'd the hawthorn blossoms wi' the bonnie yellow broom
Abune me wav'd the feathery birks whaur birds sang wild an'
free,

An' roun' aboot the lambkins skipp'd oot owre the gowany lea.

There aft I pu'd the silky seeds o' Scotland's bonnie flower,
An' toss d them high upon the breeze in childhood's thochtless
hour,

Ne'er thinkin' o' the thistles I had spread o'er fields sae fair,
But anxious watch'd the "fancied steeds careering thro' the

air.

But e'en upon the blythest heart there aye maun come a shade,
For never could a shadow fa' whaur sunbeam never stray'd;
The years hae quickly flown since then, an' muckle's come an'
gane

Since blythe an' free I wander'd there, a happy-hearted wean.

Some o' my near an' dearest frien's are i' the graveyard laid, Whaur the aul' kirk stan's sentinel, wrapp'd in its ivy plaid. There aft I've watch'd the bats langsyne flit thro' the twilight gloom,

An' i' their wild and wanton glee hover o'er ilka tomb.

I think I see the grassy mounds whaur the aul' yew trees sigh,
They seem to weep in sympathy as I in thocht pass by.
Maybe some years ahint them yet I'll wan'er here alane,

But sune death comes, the only door that leads to our lang hame.

There's nane on Allacardoch's braes
To me ava like Robin;

Whene'er I see his pawky e'e

My heart begins a-throbbin'.

There's nane to me like Robin,
My blythesome canny Robin:
When first his shy glance fell on me
My heart began a-throbbin'.

When twinklin' starnies dot the lift,
Casting shadows o'er the lea,
Fickle fancy whispers oft,

"A' their glances fa' on thee."

They make me think o' Robin,
My winsome blythesome Robin;
His looks ca' aye my wits agee,
An' set my heart a-throbbin'.

An' when he's busy at the plough,
Oft I hear him gaily sing;
Then do I wish I o'er the grass,
Like a bird upon the wing,
Could follow near to Robin,
My dark-haired, happy Robin;
Aye when he looks the way o' me
My heart begins a-throbbin'.

Yestreen, when fell the gloamin' grey,
He cam' lookin' unco shy,

An' as his steps seem bent my way
I saw I couldna pass him by,
Sae I met in wi' Robin,

My shy and canny Robin;
Last nicht he whispered in my ear,
"There's nane like you to Robin."

Sae noo I'd wish all canny lads
To act the very same;

They'd fill wi' perfect bliss the hearts
That throb for nane but them.

There's nane to me like Robin,
My honest, weel-faured Robin;
Wi' joy my wits are a' agee,
An' every pulse is throbbin'.

ANE'S AIN FIRE EN'.

O bonny blinks the fire licht
At yer ain fire en';

What though your house be thackit,
And just but an' ben.
Winnin' are the cheery ways,

O' yer ain wee loons,

Though they deave the neighbours aft Wi' their whistlin' spunes.

Jockie comes wi' a' his micht,

Puffin' like a trainLouder aye an' louder he

Blaws wi' micht an' main.
Sparklin' are his bonnie e'en,
O'er joys I wish he'd tine,
Anxiously he looks at me,
Mirth to seek in mine.

O cosy be the biggin',
Happy ane an' a',

For love oot owre the riggin'
Keeps oot frost an' snaw;
Ne'er let cark an' care sit
Doon at the fire en';
Bonny let love's true licht
Blink aye but an' ben.

Richt cosy in the fire licht,
Draw aboot at e'en ;
Be thankfu' for ilk blessin'

That aroun' is seen;

Though hard times whiles may daunt ye,

Things will tak' a sten',

Ye've aye leal hearts aboot ye,

At yer ain fire en'.

TO THE BAIRNS.

Haud awa', nor bather mair.
Hark! what's that abune?
Cuddle doon, I surely hear
Tramp o' fairy shoon.

Wheest, for noo they surely seek
Whaur the bairnies be

That winna cuddle doon and steek,
In sleep, ilk bonnie e'e.

"Tis the rattle o' John Frost
Comin' up the green,
Cleedin't white as ony ghost,
Wierd-like 'neath the mune.
Here he's comin' to us noo,
Haste e'er he gets ben;
Come cuddle 'mid the cosy 'oo'-
He winna bite ye then.

Gang awa' noo, biting John,
Far frae oor gate en';
A' the bairnies are in bed;
Fain they are to ken
That ye winna touch wee loons
Wha doucely gang awa';
I trow ye haste to ither toons
Whaur ither bairns thraw.

Richt handy ye're at times, John,
When youngsters try to tak'
The upper han', to Nature prone,
Ye whiles can turn them back.
Yer piercing e'e and frosted hair
Can mak' them budge awee,
When promises, tho' sometimes fair,
But fail, I aften see.

ALEXANDER CARGILL

S a native of Leith-having been born at what was then known as Leith Academy in 1853. His father was the Master of that Institution, and a descendant of the famous covenanter, Donald Cargill. Mr Cargill studied for the ministry, but opposing circumstances intervening, he took to a commercial career, and presently holds an appointment in one of the banks in Edinburgh. He

has contributed poetical pieces to the Scotsman newspaper and English magazines, and is about to publish a volume of sonnets, &c.

Mr Cargill has very modest ideas of the rhythmical gift he possesses, and it was with great difficulty we were able to prevail upon him to allow his name to We feel assured that many appear in our galaxy. will admire the lucid and unambiguous specimens we give of his muse. We have perused with much pleasure several of his sonnets, and have found them refined and delicate in thought, and chaste and powerful in language His Scotch poems and songs possess much quiet humour and pathos, and all his productions have the genuine ring of poetry, and show a heart full of truth, candour, and honesty. Indeed, Mr Cargill writes with a finish and strength not very common in our modern poetry.

FY! SAUCY LASS.

Fy! saucy lass, to slam the door
Upon a lad sae braw as John,
Ye blinkit gin he were but stoor,
Nae lad look'd e'er sae sma' as John!

On errand o' true love he cam',
Blythely he cam an' rantinlie,

O, shame the pride that garr'd ye slam
The door on him sae wantonlie.

What tho' upon his horny hand
Nae gluve or rings o' gowd has John,
There's nae a lad in a' the land

For honest worth sae proud as John.

On errand o' true love he cam',
Bauldly he cam' and gaucilie,

O, shame the pride that garr'd ye slam
The door on him sae saucilie!

Yon farmer 'mid his bloomin' shaws
May seem to ye mair spruce than John,
An' yon fat laird wi's "hums " an' "haws"
May craw to ye mair crouse than John.

But a' their love is but a sham,
True, true love ne'er speaks vauntinlie,
O, shame the pride that garr'd ye slam
The door on John sae wantonlie.