Alack the day, alack the hour, That saw a lad sae braw as John On errand o' true love he cam', O, shame the pride that garr'd ye slam FROM THE GREEK. As a swift-winged golden eagle Who comes as a radiant Empress, Peering down o'er the kingdom enthrallëd And widely she swayeth her sceptre, (The awful sceptre of Night!) Adorned with unreckoned jewels, 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, She's had o' suitors, monie a ane, Frae neighbour lairds tae city gentrie; 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; Nae mair devoutlie lo'ed her. 'Gae hame,' quo she, an' tent your puir!' The gossips yaummer but-an'-ben, Their claivers ower the e'enin' nappie ; The lad that wears the shepherd's plaidie ! NIGHT NEAR THE CITY. Now broods the deep-wing'd Night. Here but a league And the far stars, and list the human hum Some souls, alas, there be it doth not shrive: JILTED. (A SONNET IN SCOTCH.) O, that a wenche's twa slae-berrie een 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; Cold and surly is the night-wind, Bearing on its frantic carols, Gusty blasts of hail and sleet; Still the match-boy, young and slender, Rest he must, and to an entry "O my Father high in Heaven, When they found him in the morning, With his hands clasp'd o'er his bosom 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, And loamy soil sae rich and rare, Sangs o' a' things, baith great and sma' But nane o' them can match that gem- Auld Scotia's sons may weel be prood And waft their praises, lang and lood, 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,' Wee bairnies on their mither's knee, Aft shout for joy, and loup in glee, It cheers the heart and mak's it aye Nae thing can reach the heart's core like 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 |