An' sair were oor hearts when we drove frae the door, Then we stay'd a lang time i' the kirkyard near, E'en the blackbird look'd sad, and droop'd low his wing, He seem'd just as dowie as when it was snaw- Nae mair oor wee lambs we'll watch skip owre the knowes; My mither will weary, and e'en sae will we, Contentment is better than riches wi' strife; We'll trust to the "Pilot" to guide us safe hame, "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 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, Ne'er thinkin' o' the thistles I had spread o'er fields sae fair, air. But e'en upon the blythest heart there aye maun come a shade, 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, But sune death comes, the only door that leads to our lang hame. There's nane on Allacardoch's braes Whene'er I see his pawky e'e My heart begins a-throbbin'. There's nane to me like Robin, When twinklin' starnies dot the lift, "A' their glances fa' on thee." They make me think o' Robin, An' when he's busy at the plough, Yestreen, when fell the gloamin' grey, An' as his steps seem bent my way My shy and canny Robin; Sae noo I'd wish all canny lads They'd fill wi' perfect bliss the hearts There's nane to me like Robin, ANE'S AIN FIRE EN'. O bonny blinks the fire licht What though your house be thackit, 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. O cosy be the biggin', For love oot owre the riggin' Richt cosy in the fire licht, 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. Wheest, for noo they surely seek That winna cuddle doon and steek, "Tis the rattle o' John Frost Gang awa' noo, biting John, Richt handy ye're at times, John, 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 On errand o' true love he cam', O, shame the pride that garr'd ye slam What tho' upon his horny hand For honest worth sae proud as John. On errand o' true love he cam', O, shame the pride that garr'd ye slam Yon farmer 'mid his bloomin' shaws But a' their love is but a sham, |