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Saint Michael's, ah! no stranger thou
On Fame's remote historic page;
Of Covenanting memories true,
Thine no ignoble heritage.

But round thee now a light is shed,
And o'er thee now a ray doth rest,
By which the world for aye shall read—
"Thrice dear to every Scotsman's breast."

At monarch's feet we have not bowed,
We've kissed no earthly sovereign's hand,
But shall we not of this be proud,

Yea, prouder, that to-day we stand

Where generous Wordsworth smote his breast,
And mourned for Burns with sorrow true;
Where Halleck, from the far off West,
His noblest, proudest raptures knew ;

And where the greatest and the best
In future years shall still repair,
With kindred spirits of the past
Mysterious intercourse to share?

There may be those inclined to ask-
"Yet wherefore wake thy lowly lyre,
When men more fitted for the task,
And bards of true poetic fire

Have felt these scenes their souls inspire,
And breathed in sweet and loving line
Thoughts that no effort could require
To blot out trifles such as thine ?"

I answer such-Our land is free

As is the breeze that sweeps along
Our hills, and glens, and streams that he
Has made the theme of deathless song,

And when I frame my nameless lay
Beside the Poet's resting-place,

An inward impulse I obey

That I am powerless to suppress!

THE AULD CLACHAN WORTHIES.

"The short and simple annals of the poor."-Gray.

ANITHER, anither, and still yet anither,

An' Death lays his cauld an' his merciless hand
On silv'ry-haired sage an' on leal, loving mither,
Wha ance were the pride and the boast o' the land.
O! dolefu's the maen heard in mony a dwellin'

Sin' Winter cam' on wi' his frost an' his snaw;
The vacant chair tellin' the theme o' our wailin'-
The Auld Clachan worthies are wearin' awa.'

I whiles sit me doon, i' the cauld Winter's gloamin',
To think on the hames that langsyne I weel kent,
Where licht hearts were leapin' an' bricht een were beamin,'
An' true worth did flourish where wealth was ne'er kent,
Where kind faithfu' sons did the parents' lives brichten,
An' dochters as pure as the new driven snaw;
Though siccan blithe scenes noo mair rarely we licht on-
The Auld Clachan worthies are wearin' awa'.

I like aye to muse on the laigh theekit sheelin',
Wi' divot-built riggin' an' raips roun' the lum;
The but an' the ben o' the humble Scotch hallan ;
The hearty Scotch welcome for a' that may come ;
The bricht e'enin' fire, to the rauntle-tree bleezin',
That lit up the cottage, clean, cosie, an' a',
Where Time's speedy flicht, amang scenes sae enticin',
Was mark'd by the queer wudden wag-at-the-wa'.
At kirk, when I join in the prayers an' the praises,
I canna help thinkin'-e'en if it's a sin-

On sairly booed bodies, an' kindly auld faces,

That now if I look for 'tis only in vain.

The stieve-hamilt staff an' the plain shepherd's plaidie
Are sichts by whilk rarely oor path noo is crossed,
Tho' oft hae they graced, at kirk, fair, mill, and smiddy,
As kind sons as e'er Mither Scotland could boast.

In days when ae change chases hard on anither,
We whiles maun thole changes no juist for the best;
When bald-headed carle an' reverend faither

Maun bow to the wisdom by striplings possessed.

An' doesna dissemblance aft eagerly gather

Fruits that should to truth, worth, an' honesty fa'?
We're a' tapsalteerie, we're a' wrang thegither-
The Auld Clachan worthies are wearin' awa'.

They're wearin' awa', an' wi' them too we're tynin'
The beauty an' grace o' oor auld mither tongue,
That aft round oor young hearts gaed witchingly twinin'
In tales, sangs, an' ballads, they tauld an' they sung.
There'll sune be nocht left to remind 's o' them, savin'
The auld sculptured-through stanes richt near the kirk wa',
That silently tell, where the rank grass is wavin'-
The Auld Clachan worthies are wearin' awa'.

THIS FAIRY GLEN.

UNKNOWN to the pages of wonderful story,
Unknown to the minstrel's sweet soul-stirring lay;
Yet clothed with a beauty and crowned with a glory
Which poet or artist can never pourtray,

Thro' many fair scenes in the past I've been guided,
But none half so fair have I gazed upon yet;

And many dear dreams from my mem'ry have faded,
But this Fairy Glen I can never forget.

Bright streamlet! since last on thy banks I was seated,
I've battled the changes of many long years;
Prosperity's sunbeams I often have greeted,

Nor have I been stranger to Misery's tears;

And yet 'mid the changes within and around me,
The sun of my love for this scene ne'er hath set,
So closely thy mem'ries have wrapt, yea, have bound me,
That this Fairy Glen I can never forget.

Unlike the scenes pictured in youth's golden vision
Are those among which my life's lot hath been cast;
Yet blest with leal hearts that around me have risen,
Kind sons and fair daughters so dear to my breast;
No cause for complaining, no room for repining,

No home has my bosom for idle regret,

Yet thoughts of past pleasure are still a sweet treasure,
And this Fairy Glen I can never forget.

WE ARE NOT GROWING OLD.

"All men think all men mortal but themselves."- Young.

WE are not growing old, oh no! How foolish thus to speak, Tho' wrinkles now may cross the brow, and furrows plough the cheek;

A very idle story this, a tale so often told,

We do not care such words to hear,-We are not growing old.

We are not growing old, tho' gallant sons around us rise, And daughters fair, with all the love in woman's breast that

lies;

The thought of age can only grow in climate chill and cold, Not 'mid the mirth that cheers our hearth,-We are not growing old.

We are not growing old, tho' oft, with eyes bedimmed with tears,

We scan the chequered history, of well nigh forty years;
But ah, more eagerly we turn to what remains untold,
And on the future build our hopes,-We are not growing
old.

We are not growing old, although our locks are mixed with

grey,

And baldness overtake us, these are no criterion; nay,

How often do we meet with such in manhood strong and bold; Decisive proof they do not give,-We are not growing old.

We are not growing old; let such a thought be far away, We yet perchance may meet it on some very distant day; But even when threescore and ten may o'er our heads have roll'd,

Ah, still I fear we'll think, even then,-We are not growing old.

We are not growing old, oh no. How foolish thus to speak, Tho' wrinkles now may cross the brow, and furrows plough the cheek;

A very idle story this, a tale so often told,

We do not care such words to hear, We are not growing old.

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My riches are my little ones,
With lusty shouts who come
Across the room to welcome me
When evening brings me home,
Whose winsome smiles shed sunshine on
Life's weary chequered way;
And in my times of sadness chase
All grief and care away.

My riches are my little ones,

Who nightly with me raise, To Him who gives us every good, The humble hymn of praise; The tender plants whose constant care Hath unto me been given, Whose little lips I taught to say

"Father, who art in heaven."

My riches are my little ones:
O! think not I despise

The beauty of those rosy cheeks,

Those heaven-lit soft blue eyes!—

Those ruby lips, those rounded arms,
Those locks of curling gold,

More precious are than wide domains
Whose acres are untold.

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