Dear Shade! we cherish in our heart Mak's clear to a' the manly part, Thy genius socht the humble cot, Where Love and Faith enshrined the spot The "Twa Dogs " prove as well: I wot, The humor bubbling in thy brain, Mak's roof an' rafters ring again, The biting satire of thy pen, At pompous, self-sufficient men, Ye sat your spear. But let thy muse make Love its theme, And fate was kind, fulfilled thy dream We couldna wish thee ae bit altered, Ye ne'er wi' truth or honor paltered, In earnest sang. Remorse bred sorrow, song was born, Which thrilled the choir you now adorn Some blellums darklins mourn thy fate, Thy genius rare, Wha nightly kneeling, emulate, We've still his generation 'mang us, If Bible precepts dinna wrang us, The lessons gleaned from thy example, And shows the "Honest Man's Of God's effulgence. I utter this with good intent, a sample, When I have paid life's latest stent, To join your ploys, Submissive: hope I'd be content, THE LAND O' CAKES. IT IS THE LAND OF BEAUTY, GRANDEUR AND ROMANCE. AT a Burns celebration in Airdrie, Lanarkshire, Mr. James Chapman, Town Clerk, proposed as a toast "The Land o' Cakes." He said: "The Land o' Cakes! For why? In the language of our national bard it is the land of" Corn Rigs and Barley Rigs," of " Bannocks and barley meal," of the "hailsome parritch, chief of Scotia's food." Gentlemen, that is the reason, it is said, why England has produced such horses and Scotland such men. But the Land o' Cakes is not confined to Scotland, it extends not merely "from Maidenkirk to John o' Groats," for where in the whole inhabited globe will you not find a Scotchman, and it is even said when the North Pole comes to be discovered there will be found a "brither Scot" sitting on the top of it" monarch of all he surveys," and ready to welcome the intrepid traveller with " Here's a haun, my trusty frien'," or maybe, "Here's a health to all guid lasses." In a word, gentlemen, Scotchmen have put a girdle round the world, and therefore "take the cake," and so long as that girdle is employed in baking cakes and scones there is no fear of "puir auld Scotland." The land o' cakes-it is the land of poetry and song-the land of Burns-who in thoughts that breathe and words that burn" has done more than any other man to stamp deep in the breasts of his countrymen those feelings of patriotism, of nationality, of good fellowship and manly independence, which are the birthright of every Scotchman. 66 In the words of the best biographer of Burns, and to his honor be it said he was a clergyman, " Scotland has been more venerable, more beautiful, more glorious in the eyes of her children, and a fitter theme for poetry since the feet of Burns rested on her fields, and since his eyes glowed with enthusiasm as he saw her scenery and sung her praise." It is land of beauty, of grandeur, of romance— the land of Sir Walter Scott, who by the magic wand of his genius has re-created it, and cast a glamor over its mountains, its glens, its lochs and classic streams, which has made it the pleasure ground of Europe and America. is the land of men, of "A man's a man for a' that," for the poor man, says Christopher North when he speaks of Burns, always holds his head up and regards you with a more elevated look-the land of heroes who secured their country's independence on the field of Bannockburn, of seamen and soldiers, who contributed to secure the independence of all Europe, at the battle of Trafalgar, on the plains of Waterloo, the heights of Alma and the trenches of Sebastopol, of warriors who saved our great Indian Empire at It the relief of Lucknow, for "The Campbells are Coming, Hurrah! Hurrah!" But what need I say more, for the time would fail me to tell of the glorious achievements of her sons by sea and land, at home and abroad, not only in the arts of war but also in the glorious arts of peace, with head, heart and hand. The secret is that it is the land of "The Cottar's Saturday Night." In conclusion, it is our native land, the land we love so well. Long may we be proud of it and of the long line of distinguished ancestry which has been handed down to us, long may we glory in the name of "Scotsman." DE QUINCEY'S TWO VIEWS OF BURNS. DE QUINCEY was capable of strange lapses in memory. An illustration of this is afforded in the volume entitled "De Quincey and his Friends," by Mr. James Hogg, by references to the poetry of Burns. In 1821, when he talked to Woodhouse, the coming essayist was far from pleased with the Scottish ploughman poet. He was astonished at the high opinion which was held by the reading world in general of Burns. He accused the verses to " Mary in Heaven," of being false in sentiment, factitious and commonplace. There was nothing of the high poet in "The Cottar's Saturday Night." Besides, the subject had been borrowed from Fergusson. Even "Tam O'Shanter was greatly overpraised. In general, Burns might say some things well, but he could never be ranked as a great poet. Now, if the evidence was lacking in 1821 to prove that Burns was a great poet, then it must have been lacking forever after. Nevertheless, if Colin Rae-Brown in his "Recollections of the Glasgow Period" of De Quincey's career, which are reproduced in this volume, is to be trusted, then DeQuincey had changed his mind greatly by 1847. Worship of Burns was confessedly a hobby with Mr. Rae-Brown, and he made more than a mental note of what the great critic had to say apropos of a fine edition of Burns's poems then just announced. He observed that De Quincey's eyes visibly dilated as he spoke. "Ah!" said he, "the Ayrshire Colossus is still expanding outward and upward, in spite of all his detractors. If some of my Lake friends had had more critical insight, or more liberality, their immature de liverances on the achievements and future position of our Ayrshire poet would have savored more of the characteristics of genuine criticism and true prophecy." The contrast between the two opinions is glaring, but it would be less remarkable if De Quincey had not condemned others so unsparingly for holding views which he himself once maintained. Any one who has ever studied his own experiences in criticism must acknowledge that they are usually the most vivid and permanent of his intellectual memories. What one has once thought of a striking book or of a noteworthy body of literature, one is likely to think of again instantly when that book or that body of literature is mentioned. If De Quincey forgot so vivid a fact as his own depreciatory view of Burns, then he may have made many a slip in mere matters of learning where his hearers could not catch him. THE lamented William Scott Douglass in his incomparable edition of the complete works of Robert Burns, observes, with reference to this song, well known as beginning with the line, "Behind yon hill where Stinchar flows," that "annotators have in vain puzzled themselves to find a heroine for it. No doubt he had a living model, but it does not necessarily follow that her name must have been Nanie. The air is one of the divinest of Scotland's melodies, and the name Nanie, O, being identified with it, no versifier of taste would ever dream of composing words for it which closed otherwise than with the familiar refrain." It has, however, emerged from obscurity, on the evidence of a venerable lady, Mrs. Margaret Smith (whose maiden name was Forgie), now in her ninety-second year, and who was acquainted with Mrs. Brown of Kirkoswald, aunt of the poet, that the song was composed at the Howe part of Girvan Mains one year, on the day following the famous fair of Kirkdamdie, which Robert Burns had attended in common with a large portion of the population of Carrick. The heroine was Agnes M'Ilwraith, the farmer's daughter of Pinvalley, a well-known pastoral farm near the Nick of the Balloch, about five miles from the peaceful, secluded, and picturesque village of Barr, in the confines of Galloway and |