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,
That oft in life's morning, now long, long ago,
We pondered and sighed o'er the deeds foul and gory,
That sounded the death-knell of lonely Glencoe.
O! dire dreadful scene, dark'ning history's pages,
Black record of treachery, terror, and pain,
Defying the wisdom and skill of the ages

To change by one shadow that unchanging stain.
How sad the lone wail that did reach thee, Con Fion,*
Ere the smoke from the valley rose darkly and slow,
That told how the foul bloody task of Glenlyon,
Was bloodily sealed in the lonely Glencoe !

Majestic proud Malmor,* ah! didst thou not listen
The jubilant shouts of his barbarous men,
When the cold wintry sun on the scene had arisen
And lit up the gloom of the desolate glen?

And thou, widowed Cona,* do not thy dark waters
Bemoan the brave clansmen, as onward they flow,
And mourn the dark doom of fair innocent daughters,
That sleep 'neath the ruins of lonely Glencoe ?

Should I ever gaze on thy dark frowning mountains,
O, let it not be when the spring flowers are nigh,
Nor when summer's bright sun lights the lakes and the
fountains,

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,
The lake and the river, the glen and the grove;
Thy history, how dear since the days of my childhood!
Thy minstrels, how worthy the heart's warmest love!
But, ah! no fond feeling of proud exultation,

Glencoe, can thy mem'ries for us ever boast;
Still thou liv'st in the righteous and fierce indignation
That burns for thee still in the patriot's breast.

Yet thy doom like the roll of Ezekiel written
Within and without "lamentation and woe,"
The last and the awful tribunal awaiting
Shall then all its guilt and full penalty know.

BEAUTIFUL MAY.

BEAUTIFUL morning in beautiful May,
Welcome, thrice welcome, thy gladdening ray.
Now, when the tempests of Winter are o'er,
Now, when the Spring's chilling blasts are no more,
Welcome, thrice welcome, thy gladdening ray,
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
Sparkle and dance 'neath thy glorious beams,
Lighting the moorland, the valley and strath,
Scattering flowers by the lone mountain path,
Where, in our childhood, so oft we did stray,
Beautiful morning in beautful May.

Beautiful morning in beautiful May,

Calm is thy dawn on the sweet Sabbath day,
Deeper, then deeper, the silence that reigns

'Mong the wild mountains, and o'er the wide plains,
When up the hill-side, and down the deep dell,
Steals the sweet chime of the church-going bell,
Laden with memories holy and dear,

Fragrant with hopes that bring heaven so near,
Welcome withal, as in life's early day,
Beautiful morning in beautiful May.

Beautiful morning, in beautiful May,

Welcome, thrice welcome, thy gladdening ray,
Now, when the tempests of Winter are o'er,

Now, when the Spring's chilling blasts are no more,
Now, when the woods, fields, and hedge-rows are seen
Robed in their brightest and liveliest green,
Welcome, thrice welcome, thy gladdening ray,
Beautiful morning in beautiful May.

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 see within our humble home another form laid low,
To watch another sufferer with meekness bow the head,
And mark the fell destroyer come with slow but certain
tread,

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,
Beside the bed of a dear son with weary heart to wait.
May He who gave me grace and strength to stand the evil
day

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.
I know not if the memories of all our partings here
Shall reach us in that better land and yonder radiant sphere.

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
Or mountain towerin' high,
But wimples doon its nameless dell-
The burn that whiles rins dry.

Its glassy waves are ne'er o'erlook'd
By grand baronial tower,
They seek in nae lone leafy nook

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
When cam' the Spring-time thaws,

An' oft when we in Autumn days

Were gatherin' o' the haws;

We too hae seen Sol's scorching beam
Its fountain sairly try,

An' lend it that sad luckless name-
The burn that whiles rins dry.

Yet bonnie spots bestud its braes
When whins are a' in bloom,

As aft we've seen in youth's bright days,
When wand'rin' 'mang the broom;