GLENCOE. Verses written on reading a full account of the massacre of its inhabitants, which took place on the tempestuous morning of the 16th February, 1692. How woeful and weird still the heart-stirring story, To change by one shadow that unchanging stain. Majestic proud Malmor,* ah! didst thou not listen And thou, widowed Cona,* do not thy dark waters Should I ever gaze on thy dark frowning mountains, Or autumn's sere leaves in the lonely wood lie. Ah! no; let it be when the tempest is sweeping 'Mid the hurricane's wrath and the cold blinding snow, As it swept when the weak and the helpless were weeping When sharing the dire dreadful doom of Glencoe. *Con Fion and Malmor are the names of two hills, the one on the north, the other on the south, while Cona is the name of the stream that winds down the depth of the valley of Glencoe. O, Scotland! dear land of the rock and the wildwood, Glencoe, can thy mem'ries for us ever boast; Yet thy doom like the roll of Ezekiel written BEAUTIFUL MAY. BEAUTIFUL morning in beautiful May, Beautiful morning in beautiful May, Chasing the mists from the blue hills away, When the calm lakelets and clear bounding streams Beautiful morning in beautiful May, Calm is thy dawn on the sweet Sabbath day, 'Mong the wild mountains, and o'er the wide plains, Fragrant with hopes that bring heaven so near, Beautiful morning, in beautiful May, Welcome, thrice welcome, thy gladdening ray, Now, when the Spring's chilling blasts are no more, RETURN, O LORD; HOW LONG ?* THE thought that often filled my heart, the words my lips did know, When first the dreary shadow fell, ten long, long years ago, When by the fair and fading form of one both near and dear I watch'd by night and day, while oft I shed the hidden tear; And while the shadow rested still, for weeks, for months, and years, I struggled on through fading hopes, I cried 'mid gathering fears, Thou who dost fill our humble home with sorrow, not with song, O, let Thy presence pierce the gloom-"Return, O Lord, how long?" *In a quiet secluded spot in the valley of the Esk stands a little cluster of cottages within a mile of the mansion of Sir George Douglas Clerk of Penicuik, viz., Corntown Cottages. One of these has been the scene of very protracted family affliction and trying breavement, the family we refer to being that of Mr Napier, shepherd. In 1873, Katherine, his daughter, took ill and lay in bed for ten years, her death taking place in April 1883, at the age of 33. During the period of Katherine's illness, viz., in 1879, Nelly took ill and died in May 1880, aged 25. During the same period Mary also took ill, viz., in 1882, and died in September, 1883, at the age of 17. It will thus be seen that for many years there were seldom less than two cases of severe illness in the dwelling at one time, and many of the records of those dark days in the history of a family well known and very much respected, are of the saddest and most painful character, and have called forth the warmest sympathies of the thoughtful portion of the community generally, as well as of their immediate friends. The above verses were sent anonymously to Mrs Napier. The closing lines refer to John Napier, a brother of the three sisters, whose death took place at the early age of 22, only a few days after the above lines were written. And when the river of our grief in wider waves did flow, And in our humble home we saw another form laid low, Amid the strange bewilderment that then the bosom knew, When thoughts were sad and many; ay, and words were brief and few, The thought was near me when their eyes with gentle hand I closed, And looked upon the faded form that then in death reposed, And when a weary wanderer those doleful shades among, The plaint oft reached my Father's ear-"Return, O Lord; how long?" And was the fiery trial past, and was the spoiler stayed, When two young forms were side by side in the lone churchyard laid? Ah! no, 'twas ours to drink anew the bitter cup of woe, And when the spoiler's shafts flew thrice, and thrice my peace was slain, And this lone bosom yearned o'er those that did with me remain, Amid the deepest darkness of that terrible eclipse Back came the simple litany unto my trembling lips, When saddest memories, darkest fears, did by my pathway throng, I only cried, amid my tears, "Return, O Lord; how long?" And yet the shadow hovers still, and yet it is my fate, And bow the head when He did call earth's dearest ones away, He who to me has granted strength through all the painful past, Oh may He guide me till I cross the Jordan's wave at last. One thing I know, they shall not mar the glories of the blest, Nor cast one dim, brief shadow, in that dear, dear land of rest; And when we stand around the throne and join the angel's song, Then shall the plaint no more be known-"Return, oh Lord; how long?" D THE BURN THAT WHILES RINS DRY. IT has its source the meads amang By yon lone woodland wide, Where first is heard the cuckoo's sang In a' the kintra side; It skirts the base o' nae proud hill Its glassy waves are ne'er o'erlook'd My lord or lady's bower; But busy farm and cottage hame It wimples gladly by, Where blithesome bairns its waters stem The burn that whiles rins dry. We've seen 't o'erspread its banks and braes An' oft when we in Autumn days Were gatherin' o' the haws; We too hae seen Sol's scorching beam An' lend it that sad luckless name- Yet bonnie spots bestud its braes As aft we've seen in youth's bright days, |