Bright seemed the joyous future then,
And hopes were pure and high,
And gladsome seemed its bonnie glen-
The burn that whiles rins dry.

Is there nae moral in the sang
That bonnie burnie sings—
Nae strange mysterious murmuring
Of frail and fleeting things?
Does it nae bid us fix our love
On things that are on high-
And warn us that earth's joys oft prove
A burn that whiles rins dry?

THE PRESENT, AND THE FUTURE.

WHY do we ponder on the past

For ever and for aye,

As if no shadow e'er o'ercast
The sunshine of its day;
As if no failing and no fault
Upon its pages shone ;

As if life's path were then bestrewn
With flowers, and flowers alone?

Why do we ponder on the past?
It had its sunshine-true;
Ay, but it had its griefs and fears,
And days of darkest hue.
Although, perhaps, 'tis well that these
From memory's page we blot,
The sunshine all remembered, but
The shadows all forgot.

Why do we ponder on the past

With meaningless regret?

Perhaps the present is to us

With brighter diamonds set.

And ills that once within the breast
Waked terror and alarm,

We meet with more unflinching front,
And brave with stronger arm.

Why do we ponder on the past?

The memories of its hours
Are radiant of the golden time
Of buds and opening flowers.
But now we drink the deeper draught
Of pleasures more sublime,
Befitting more the strength and pride
Of manhood's stalwart prime.

Why do we ponder on the past?
Yea, why not turn away
A keen and eager glance to cast
Into life's future day?

While higher aspirations our
Imaginations fire,

And purer thoughts, and holier aims,
Our breasts and lives inspire.

'Tis thus successfully we'll chase
Our present cares away,
And of a lasting future peace

The sure foundation lay.

Thus sweeter memories shall we store

For days that are to come,

And brighter make the pathway when
We're nearer to our home.

THE QUAINT OLD PICTURE.

SPARE for me that quaint old picture in the corner of my room,

Let no rash or reckless fingers near the sacred relic come; Be its outlines faint and feeble, its adornments very plain, Yet I charge thee that the treasure all unchanged with me remain.

Fruit of warm and fond affection more than rare artistic skill,

Work of heart and hands now resting in the churchyard lone and still,

That from lov'd ones oft has courted many a fond and lingering gaze,

Bound thou art unto this bosom, in a thousand tender ways.

Spare for me the quaint old picture, for it leads my thoughts

away

Back unto the home of childhood-back to youth's delight

ful day.

'Tis my own dear father's father, with that noble brow and

grand,

Who so often in life's morning led me fondly by the hand, Speaking words of warmest kindness as we strayed beside the stream,

While the tiny teardrop often in his aged eye did gleam, As he fanned my brow so gently, as he stroked my locks of gold,

While a bright and happy future he so lovingly foretold.

Spare for me the quaint old picture, let it still be very nearIt may wake for me the accents of that voice I loved to hear In the psalm of praise at even, in the holy chapters read, And the faithful prayers he offered, ah, how reverently said! It may reproduce the faces and the forms that round him knelt,

Bid me feel for one brief moment as in youth's bright morn I felt,

E'en though thoughts that are the saddest follow swiftly in

their train,

As I think upon the remnants of that band that now remain.

Spare for me the quaint old picture; do not let it be dis

placed

From the corner where so closely I those features oft have traced.

It has been my mute companion now through many chang

ing years,

In the times of joyous sunshine, in the days of doubts and fears.

Rich and many are the memories that it still unto me brings, Let me part with it, yes, only with all other earthly things, When those forms to me the dearest swiftly from my vision fade,

And as swiftly do the shadows of the long night o'er me spread.

Spare for me that quaint old picture in the corner of my

room,

Let no rash or reckless fingers near the sacred relic come : Be its outlines faint and feeble, its adornments very plain; Yet I charge thee that the treasure all unchanged with me remain.

A DAY IN YARROW.

A DAY in Yarrow! happy thought,
Though happier thoughts shall waken
When we ascend the lonely height,

Through heather and through bracken,
The beauteous landscape there to trace,
Whose hill-tops, crowned with glory,
Rise up 'mong scenes whose names find place
In dear and deathless story.

A day in Yarrow! be it ours,

When May her flower-wreath bringeth,
Or when among June's leafy bowers
The mellow blackbird singeth;

Nor laverock's song, nor blackbird's lay,
Shall prove a dirge of sorrow,
Nor shall the lovely flowers of May
Less lovely seem in Yarrow.

A day in Yarrow, when her waves
'Neath sunbeams bright are straying,
And lesser streams their margins lave,
To her their tribute paying.

No tale of woe to thrill us now,

Waked by her winding waters,
But breathing loves, both leal and true,
'Mong her own sons and daughters.

Dear is the heath and soft green sward,
The streamlet's sweet meander,
Where often Ettrick's mountain bard
In solitude did wander,

When gazing on her glens and streams
So classic and so lonely,

Enwrapt in those mysterious dreams
Known to him and him only.

A day among the "Dowie Dens,"
Where Wordsworth sought and found him,
With minstrelsey of Borderland,

Like mantle wrapt around him.
They wandered there as in a dream,
Enchanter and enchanted,

'Neath cloudlet dim and rainbow's rim,
From fairyland transplanted.

A day among the forest scenes,
By no dark cloud belated;

For comfort, peace, and gladness reigns
Where Flodden desolated.
And rich and rare the garland fair
The muses chose to weave her,
Of plaintive song, both sweet and pure,
Song that shall live for ever.

A day in Yarrow! happy thought,

Though happier thoughts shall waken
When we ascend the lonely height

Through heather and through bracken,
The beauteous landscape there to trace,
Whose hill-tops, crowned with glory,
Rise up 'mong scenes whose names find place
In dear and deathless story.

WHEN THE SERE LEAFLETS FELL.

Verses to a friend, on receiving intimation of the death of his daughter at the age of fifteen.

SHE closed her eyes when the sere leaflets fell

O'er the pathway that lies thro' the deep-wooded dell,
Where often her merry voice rang thro' the glade,

When there by the home of her childhood she played.

She faded away when the fairest of flowers

Were swept from the greenwood, the fields, and the bowers,
And Autumn's chill breeze in the dust hath not laid
Aught fairer or purer than that blooming maid.