Oh! the happy days o' youth, they couldna aye remain,—
There was owre muckle joy, and owre little pain;
Sae fareweel happy days! and fareweel youthfu' glee!

The young may court your smiles, but you're gaen frae me!

When the acclamations which followed this song had subsided, we began to perceive symptoms of what Blackwood calls "civilation" among our companions. One was mounted on one leg on his chair drinking the health of the singer; another was examining his surtout, rent from back to collar amid the furious mirth; a third had sunk down in his chair, with the purpose apparently of exploring with his feet the geography at the other side of the table, and, with his spectacles craned over his forehead, was gliding downwards behind his tumbler, like Sol sinking into a sea of cold toddy; while five or six in the low corner were singing each on a key of his own, "We are na fou.” Our chairman accordingly left his throne, and we soon after dispersed. One went home cursing the bad pavements of Edinburgh which would not let an honest man walk strait; another flourished with an umbrella over his head, though it was as clear a moonlight night as ever fairy danced in; and half the watchmen in Lothian Street and South Bridge were knocked down by two or three uproarious members of our party, whose hats were exhibited next morning as trophies in the Police Office. On the whole, however, not one of us but will remember with pleasure our Night with the Ettrick Shepherd."

DANIEL MERSHAUM.

THE PAST.

O THINK not my heart hath never felt
For others, because it feels not now,
Nor deem that gloom hath always dwelt

Like a wintry cloud on my sullen brow:
Once I was thoughtless, was happy as thou;
The tints of sunset once pleased mine eye,
And the summer breeze as it whispered by
Was sweet; and there seemed as I looked around
To be gladness in every sight and sound,
And I loved a world so attractive and fair,
And I dreamt that all was rapture there;
Ah me! that bitterness should dwell
In a world our nature could love so well.
Once I could smile, but sorrow's dart
Hath rankled long in my aching heart,
And the tear of pity once dimmed mine eye,
It could do so still-but its fountain is dry,
And melancholy hath overcast

With its clouds the heaven that bloomed in the past.

The Past! it hath fled like a feverish dream,
Yet the forms it contained still fitfully gleam
On my heart, like the moon-beams that coldly break
Through darkness and glance on the midnight lake ;
And I love to gaze on them still, although
They tell but of long-endured woe.

There is an eye of tenderest blue

That still methinks doth flash upon me,

From its silken fringe, like a star-beam through
The mist that sleeps on a twilight sea;
And memory sadly reverts to the hour
When it hovered o'er me with magic power.
There is a voice that yet thrills in my ear
Like the music the wanderer loves to hear,
As borne from afar on the breath of eve
It gently steals o'er the trembling wave;
And while the melody floats around,
He lingers as if upon holy ground,—
As if some angel were sent to convey
Tidings of a land that is far away.—
There is a form of loveliness

On my waking dreams that riseth yet,
And it whispers of long-lost scenes of bliss

Of days of rapture whose sun hath set.
I look, and that vision is bright as when first
On my soul in all its glory it burst,

And the smile that dwells upon every glance
Is of mingled beauty and innocence.

I look again, and the hand of decay
Hath seized on her lovely form as its prey,
The rose on her cheek hath faded now,
And the cold drop hangs on her marble brow;
But yet, though her eye is sickly and chill,
Her fainting form is lovely still.—

I look again, and beauty once more
Lightens up the face where it dwelt before,
And o'er it there breathes an etherial air
This world could not have emplanted there;
And at times her lately languid eye,
As if strains angelic were floating by,
Is illumined with inward ecstacy;
And oft I can mark a deceitful streak

Of crimson tinge her lilied cheek,

Yet that hectic flush is of loveliest hue,

Like a beam of the heaven she was hastening to.

I look again-and all is o'er

The image I loved dwells on earth no more,

On the slow-moving hearse I have seen the plumes wave,
And the weeping cypress droop over her grave,

And the joys of mortality ne'er may incline
To gladness a bosom so cheerless as mine.

J. C.

BURKING.

AT a period, when the mental attainments of mankind are said to be superior to what they have ever before been-in a country praised above others for its religious and moral character-where education is so widely strewn, that few, very few are wholly ignorant, and where blessings have been poured with a profuse hand upon all its inhabitants, crimes debasing to human nature, and horrid in themselves, have been committed with greater frequency and more aggra vated atrocity, than during the dark ages when the mind was in its midnight, when religion was a superstition, morality unknown, and education consisted in learning to do evil.

Murder stands first and highest in the hateful catalogue, and we will confine the following remarks to a peculiar species which has of late sprung up amongst us. Burking" is what we allude to, and a more detestable, a more horrible crime does not exist upon earth than is comprehended in that expressive vocable.

The introduction of this word into the English language marked a new era in the progress of crime, and the use of it was the result of outrages more cruel and odious than mankind had conceived to be possible. Derived from the name of a once obscure villain, it has become a word of such powerful import, that the association of ideas and feelings which it excites, are scarcely equalled by any that our language can produce.

To take away the life of a fellow being even upon provocation, shews the evil of our nature, and our distance from that spirit which returns good for evil: but to murder deliberately and methodically, that a beggarly pittance may be obtained for the bodies of the victims, implies in the wretches who thus act-minds saturated with the worst of passions, and hearts callous-impervious to the kindlier feelings of humanity: yet true it is, murder has been committed with no other motive to instigate to it than the mere gain arising from the sale of the dead body, and this not once only, but often! The shouts and execrations of the assembled thousands who witnessed the death-scene of a BURKE, and the horror and wrath of a roused nation have failed to prevent its repetition. That repetition has been attended withif possible-greater depravity, with improvements in the art of murder. The bodies have been disposed of piece-meal, and a race of butchers having shambles for the slaying of human-beings has arisen in our land!

When men first heard of the murders by Burke and Hare, horror was almost the universal feeling in their breasts: when they thought a little they comforted themselves with the false hope that such a crime would never be again heard of, and that those human bloodhounds were monsters known only once during the existence of a world. They have been mistaken. It has been well observed, that "let a man advance any doctrine-however absurd-and he will find some to support him," and it would appear that let a man commit any crime however evil-and some will imitate him. Burke and Hare set the example; it has been fearfully followed-and there is no security that more instances will not arise, so long as the schools of anatonry continue to be supplied with subjects in the illegal and

private manner which necessity compels them to adopt. The question now general is,-Are there no means to prevent this crime? we answer, yes; and now they must be applied. You must destroy the market of these miscreants by legally permitting dissection, and securing a supply adequate to the demand, at little expence; for render anatomy legal, reduce the value of anatomical subjects, and there will be neither inducement nor opportunity to commit these cruel villanies. Then and then only can we be secure against such assas

sins.

Many methods have been thought of to accomplish the above objects. It has been proposed that the medical profession should leave their bodies for public dissection; and again, that the bodies of those who die without relations or friends should be given for public dissection, provided interment was guaranteed. To the first of those proposals we have no objections, if the medical gentlemen themselves are agreed, but we cannot see the justice of making one class of men, exclusive of every other, undergo a disagreeable process by which all are to be benefitted; for it is not the medical practitioner who requires anatomy, his patients require it, and accordingly he studies it. To the other proposal we agree. No one knows when, where or how he may die, he may die friendless or he may not, and this uncertainty is one argument in favour of the proposal, viz. we all run the same chance that we offer to others. It has been argued that to take the poor and friendless is unfair, cruel, and derogatory to our best feelings, but " of all evils choose the least;" what man is there, who will deny that to employ those whom none cares for, is better than to permit murder and robbery to become a trade? And we would ask, whether the knowledge, that the poor and friendless were made anatomical subjects, would be more grating to our feelings than the knowledge that murder is employed to destroy not only the poor and friendless--but those who have many to mourn for them? We affirm, without fear of contradiction, that the present system of supplying the anatomical schools engenders more evil, and produces a worse effect upon our feelings, than could be the case, were they provided openly and freely by the public. Give the schools of anatomy those bodies which belong to no Put them under the jurisdiction of the magistrates; let persons be appointed to overlook these schools, to see that proper respect is paid to the remains of the dead, and that the rites of sepulture are not neglected. And let no hireling perform these duties, but let the magistrates themselves do so: it may be disagreeable to them, but they are public servants, and as such must perform their public duties; however disagreeable these may be, a little management would render them easy. Let this be done, and a class of men (the resurrectionists) who are fit for the worst of crimes will be annihilated, and "Burking" will be heard only in the whisper of the fearful winter's tale. Let us not hesitate-it concerns ourselves as individuals; and collectively, as a nation, we should not suffer laws or customs to exist which have a direct tendency to lead to crime.

one.

Almost all allow that dissection is necessary in order to make either good surgeons or physicians. The course of study required by the legislature for a surgeon, demands, before he can serve either in the navy or army, so many months actual dissection, and our most

approved Colleges make the same requisition, and it must be fulfilled ere they will grant a Diploma. In thus acting, all men of sense will allow that they do right, but they must also allow that the legislature has done wrong by allowing an absurd statute to exist which rendered the execution of their own orders impossible or criminal. They are to blame for the lives which have been lost, and to them must we look for measures to prevent the recurrence of similar atrocities.

We repeat, that, unless some such measures as have been pointed out are followed, we have no security that murder will not become a traffic. The present laws and customs of society make the bodies of the dead worth a certain value in money, and prevent the anatomist from knowing where or how these bodies are obtained. Let us beware; we know not but ourselves or friends may be the next victims; we have the means in our own hands of doing away with the evil, and if we neglect to use them, who will be to blame should we have again to deplore the untimely end of our fellow men by means of cruel and sordid villainy?

Since writing the above it has been proposed that the bodies of all those who die in prison should be given over to the anatomists on the grounds that their friends must care very little about them. A few words will settle this; many are in prison for debt which their friends cannot liquidate, though the latter may be perfectly willing and able to take charge of the mortal remains of the unfortunate.

D.

THE LAST OF HIS RACE.

BY DAVID MALLOCK, A. M.

The sun is sinking in the west, up springs the cooling breeze
And the melodies of even-tide are whispering through the trees,-
Hark! 'tis the spirits of the dead-they beckon me away;
Nor longer by the lonely flood do they permit my stay.
And is it so and are all gone-the noble and the free?
And are the thousands of my tribe concentred now in me!

Oh withering thought! beat loud my heart-and haughty as at first,
Beat-till the purple springs of life in agony shall burst!

Away to yonder rugged steep-say what salutes thee now ;-
Undím thine eye and wipe away the cold drops from thy brow.

Down through the forest's deepening shade, amid the sacred gloom
Of meeting boughs, mine eyes behold the consecrated tomb!—
Dust of my fathers! holy still through the long lapse of years,
Receive my last sad offering-the tribute of my tears.
Woe to the hour when first ye met, in all your wild array,
The Stranger on your rushing streams, and beckon'd him to stay.