Alack the day, alack the hour,

That saw a lad sae braw as John
Turn dowie-hearted frae your door-
Nae lad was e'er sae thraw as John!

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

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

FROM THE GREEK.

As a swift-winged golden eagle
Descendeth afar in his flight,
So the Day-god's flaming pennon
Is swiftly vanished from sight:
And o'er us in silence outrolling,
Lo! the ebon standard of Night;

Who comes as a radiant Empress,
Comes glorious, conquering-wise,
With her eager, far-glancing, unresting,
And multitudinous eyes,

Peering down o'er the kingdom enthrallëd
That low at her foot-stool lies!

And widely she swayeth her sceptre,

(The awful sceptre of Night!)

Adorned with unreckoned jewels,
A-gleam with her glory and might;
Infinite, yet but the shadow
Of a dreader Infinite!

THE SHEPHERD'S PLAIDIE.

The laird has acres braid an' braw,

Fu plentie baith o' yowes an' ousen ;

But a' his gear is nocht awa,

Tho' it were reckoned thrice ten thousan'.

His dochter Jean's ayont it a',

Guid faith! she is a dainty layde,

And whiles on me she'll deign her ee,
Tho' I but wear the shepherd's plaidie.

She's had o' suitors, monie a ane,

Frae neighbour lairds tae city gentrie;
But back their gaits they aye hae gane,
As cowerin' frae a tempest wintrie !
O! mony a weary sough an' grane
The jade has wrung frae her auld daddie?

Yet mild on me aye fa's her e'e,

Tho I but wear the shepherd's plaidie !

The minister cam yont an' sware

Sic vows o' luve-it maist did shock her;
But Jean, jalousin', was fu' ware

Nae mair devoutlie lo'ed her.

'Gae hame,' quo she, an' tent your puir!'
And aff he gaed, but naething said he ;
Syne blythe to me she coost her e'e,
Tho' I but wear the shepherd's plaidie.

The gossips yaummer but-an'-ben,

Their claivers ower the e'enin' nappie ;
Some say she hates the sicht o' men,
Some, that she lo'es a sailor chappie,
Some trow they mair than ithers ken,
But wow! my Jean's a dainty ladye!
Her bonnie e'e aye glints tae me-

The lad that wears the shepherd's plaidie !

NIGHT NEAR THE CITY.

Now broods the deep-wing'd Night. Here but a league
From the great city where, as in a hive
Of many-swarmed bees, men toil and strive,
Some by fair wit and some by base intrigue,
I stand alone beneath the welkin clear

And the far stars, and list the human hum
That filled the ear of day-but all is dumb,
And Silence holds in awe the atmosphere!
Yet tho' serene beneath Night's awful spell
Yon many-peopled city stilly lies,

Some souls, alas, there be it doth not shrive:
The fearful felon prone within his cell,-
The fugitive with ever-furtive eyes,-
The miser fetter'd to his golden gyve!

JILTED. (A SONNET IN SCOTCH.)
What carle are ye wha comes sae dowff an' wae,
Forjeskit sair wi' sad-lamentin' croon ?
I' faith! I trow ye are some slichtit loon
Wham gigglin' dawtie has dismissit sae,
Your dreepin' een speak o' sic heart's-dismae!
Aiblins some blither lad wi' brawer shoon,
An' dandier airs gat i' the genty toon,
Has ta'en her flichterin' fancy this sad day
Sy'n ye're pack't aff like ony semple fule?

O, that a wenche's twa slae-berrie een
Can mak' a man sae wud wi' bitter dool,
Can mak' a man e'en wish he ne'er had been !
But tent ye; tho' ae berrie on the bush
Ye mayna pree, there's monie mair as lush!

DAVID SCOTT,

INER, was born in 1864, in the village of Cowdenfoot, near Dalkeith. His father has been employed as a coal-miner since he was nine years of age, and when the writer of the following verses was but a child, the family removed to the village of Newtongrange. He attended the colliery school until he was thirteen, and was sent to work as a trapper in a mine belonging to the Marquis of Lothian, where he is still employed. David Scott gave early evidence of a thoughtful mind, and sometime ago he received a prize for the best description in verse of a picture in one of our leading illustrated magazines. He appears frequently in the columns of the local and district newspapers, and his poems are natural and unsophisticated.

THE MATCH-BOY'S PRAYER.

"Matches, matches, from a penny,

Buy a pen'orth, if you please,'

Cried a little ragged lad,

Above the howling of the breeze;
Torn, benuinbed and mud-bespatter'd,
Blue with cold his icy cheeks,
But all must be battled bravely,
As he there his living seeks.

Cold and surly is the night-wind,
Howling through the dismal streets,

Bearing on its frantic carols,

Gusty blasts of hail and sleet;
Gasping groups of soak'd pedestrians,
Hurry from its dreadful sway,
To their warm and cheery fireside,
To their homes so bright and gay.

Still the match-boy, young and slender,
Calls his sad and wailing cry,
Holding forth unsought-for matches
To each muffled passer-by,
Yet they pass him all unheeded,
As he stands there on the street,
Shaking, trembling, sad and weary,
On his chilled and naked feet.

Rest he must, and to an entry
Dark and dreary, he repairs,
And with limbs all cramp'd and weary,
Kneels upon the cellar stairs.
Pinch'd and shriven are his features,
Hunger keen is ruling there,
As he in soft and feeble accents,
Offers up this earnest prayer :-

"O my Father high in Heaven,
Take me home to stay with thee,
And the loving ones who nursed me
In my days of childish glee;
Take me to Thy home of beauty,
In some peaceful realm to dwell,
Where there's nought but peace and plenty,
And is heard no funeral knell."

When they found him in the morning,
Kneeling on the cellar stair,

With his hands clasp'd o'er his bosom
In the attitude of prayer,

Dim and glassy were his eyes,

No more with life his bosom glow'd, Signs that told them plainly, clearly, That his soul had fled to God.

A HAMELY SCOTTISH SANG.

There's sangs o' foreign lands sae fair,
The Niger and the Rhine,

And loamy soil sae rich and rare,
Where grows the fragrant vine;

Sangs o' a' things, baith great and sma'
I hear where'er I gang;

But nane o' them can match that gem-
A hamely Scottish sang.

Auld Scotia's sons may weel be prood
O' Burns and Tannahill,

And waft their praises, lang and lood,
Ower ev'ry heather hill;

They spread their lilts thro' a' the land

In guid broad Doric twang,

And charm the e'e o' Scotia wi'

Ilk hamely Scottish sang.

'Auld Robin Gray' and 'Scots wha hae,'

'Tib Fowler o' the Glen,'

'O' a' the airts the win' can blaw,'

Are sweet beyond a' ken;

'Oh, Tibbie I hae seen the day,'
And Lassie will ye gang,'
Are lays that show the virtues o'
A hamely Scottish sang.

Wee bairnies on their mither's knee,
When chidin' is in vain,

Aft shout for joy, and loup in glee,
To hear the saft refrain;

It cheers the heart and mak's it aye
Recover from its pang;

Nae thing can reach the heart's core like
A hamely Scottish sang.

ত

JAMES CARNEGIE FIGG.

'HERE is little to be said regarding a young author whose work has not yet come before the world. We can only hail him as a brother, and predict that he will take a place among our poets if the promise of his youth is fulfilled. The young man whose name we would record here among our Scottish bards was born at Bo'ness, Linlithgowshire, in 1857. His father, Dr Figg, went to Australia when his son was quite young, and under the fervid skies of the glorious gold-land the lad's poetic temperament developed, so that he very early began to express his thoughts in verse. His first effusion (on the death of a little sister) at eight years of age is quite remarkable. But it is true that the poetic faculty cannot be fully developed without the showers of adversity. Many young poets give promise of future greatness, and then disappear among the crowd of prosperous prosaic folk. We look for their " ripened sheaves," and feel inclined to wish that life had been less smooth with them. Therefore we dare not say what the future of this