Ravendean Burn! Ravendean Burn!

Rude tho' thy ravings in Winter days be,
When woods by the breath of the tempest are torn,
And Winter winds wail o'er the daisyless lea,
Still there is music-majestic and grand-

In thy rude torrent's rush, heard from afar,
In days when the storm sweeps ocean and land,
Thro' nights all unknown unto moonbeam or star.
Ravendean Burn! Ravendean Burn!

Say, on thy banks did our forefathers meet,
When Zion's fair banner was ruthlessly torn
By tyrants who trampled it under their feet?
Ah! ne'er did the sweet voice of prayer and praise
Arise among wilds more befitting, I ween,

And ne'er, 'mid the troubles of Covenant days,

Was the preacher's voice heard in a lonelier scene.

Ravendean Burn! Ravendean Burn!

Wimpling and dimpling the blue hills among ; Health on the breeze of the valley is borne

Where 'mong the mountains is heard thy sweet song. Far from the haunts and the dwellings of men,

Far from green meadow and daisied lea,

Singing where silence and solitude reign,

Sweet are the moments spent musing by thee.

NOONDAY DARKNESS.

Verses written on the sudden darkness with which our land was visited on 12th August, 1884, a day rendered memorable to many by the sudden death of the Earl of Lauderdale.

OH! day to be remembered!
Full many a tongue shall tell
Of the mysterious darkness
That at the noontide fell,
When thrice ten thousand bosoms
Were wrung with bitter fear

Lest the last dread tribunal

F

It was a dreadful darkness,

And swiftly did it fall;
For oh! the Hand was powerful
That spread the gloomy pall;
And mighty was the Monarch
Who shrouded in dismay
The work of His creation—
The creatures of a day.

A weird and awful silence
Did for an instant reign,
That moment one of anguish,
Of keen and poignant pain,
Ere yet the agonising

And terrible suspense
Was closed amid the thund'rings
Of dread Omnipotence.

It was a dreadful darkness,
And brief altho' it was,

Earth's thoughtless sons waxed thoughtful,
Earth's hasty sons did pause;

And the persistent scoffer

Has through new troubles passed,

And doubts if all his doubting

Will bear him up at last.

It was a dreadful darkness,
And musing on the same,
Backward our thoughts are turned
To One of gracious name,
The tidings of whose anguish
And sweat, and pain, and tears
Have reached us through the changes
Of thrice six hundred years.

It was a solemn picture,
Such as perchance no more
Will meet us till the myst'ries
Of this brief life are o'er,

When He who cried, "Tis finished,

'Mid noonday darkness shall Appear in awful glory

The Lord and Judge of all.

Oh! day to be remembered,
Full many a tongue shall tell
Of the mysterious darkness
That at the noon-tide fell,
When thrice ten thousand bosoms
Were wrung with bitter fear
Lest the last dread tribunal

Were near, aye, very near.

I WINNA LEAVE AULD SCOTLAND YET.

I WINNA leave auld Scotland yet,

Though tryin' times we 're doomed to dree, An' mony a brither seeks a hame

Far owre the wide Atlantic Sea.
Success to many a manly band,

Who hardship, storm, and danger brave!
But in our ain dear mountain land
I wish at last to find a grave.

I winna leave auld Scotland yet-
Dear are her glens and wooded dales,
Her moors, where owre the martyr's bed
The Summer wind sae saftly wails;
Her crystal streams, that gladly glide
The green majestic hills among;
Her rivers, that have long been wed
To soothing, sweet, undying song.

I winna leave auld Scotland yet-
A better future is in store,
When sunshine bright the scene shall light
That sorrow long has hovered o'er.
Then Scotchmen on their native shore,

And brethren on a distant strand,

Shall join in glad rejoicings o'er

Our ancient Covenanted land.

I winna leave auld Scotland yet,

Though tryin' times we're doomed to dree,
An' mony a brither seeks a hame

Far owre the wide Atlantic Sea.

Success to many a manly band

Who hardship, storm, and danger brave!
But in our ain dear mountain land

I wish at last to find a grave

PARTING TRIBUTE.

To the Rev. William Whitefield, Author of Various Sketches of the Covenanters, &c., on his departure for America.

AND dost thou leave thy native land when dark December reigns,

To sojourn on a foreign strand, and seek, on distant plains, A home from Scotland's battlefields so very far removed, From hills and streams renowned in song, by thee so fondly loved ?

And will thy bosom be at rest when thou no more shalt tread The wilds and misty moors to which the faithful often fled? When thou no more shalt look upon the lonely martyr's hill, Or glens by Cameron made dear, or Peden, or Cargill ?

Then it can only be thou art to kindred spirits joined, That know and share thy love to all that thou dost leave behind,

By whom the patriotic flame to life anew is fanned,

Of love to Mother Scotland's name, our ancient Covenant land.

Thus may it be, and Scotland still shall have the fruits that flow

From early years spent 'mong her hills, that holiest memories know;

While bravest deeds of daring, noblest acts of godly men, Find full and faithful record thro' thy person and thy pen.

SUGGESTED BY "REMINISCENCES OF YARROW," BY THE LATE DR JAMES RUSSELL.

A GENIAL sunbeam serenely reflected

By sire deeply skilled in the Borderland lore; The past with its lights and shadows depicted

By hand that shall now lift the pencil no more.

And dear to the daughters and sons of the Forest
The tales of their valley so classic and fair,
Recorded by one of the truest and purest

That e'er trod its mountains or breathed its air,

Who oft sought their homes in the dark hours of sorrow,
With kind words of comfort the downcast to raise,
Who learned, 'mid the brightest rejoicings in Yarrow,
No face and no form was more welcome than his.

No bigoted cleric, no narrow sectarian,

Pursuant of honour, promotion, or fameThe plain simple pastor, and faithful historian, A Scot, and a Border-man worthy the name;

Who loved Yarrow fondly in life's joyous morning,
When bright golden dreams did his fancy engage;
Yet loved her still more when gray tresses gave warning
Of life's closing scenes and the frailties of age.

Now Yarrow's green hills greet the sunbeams as freely, And Yarrow's lone waves their sad songs do not cease; Tho' softest their murm'rings in depth of the valley Where pastor and people are resting in peace.

A genial sunbeam serenely reflected

By sire deeply skilled in the Borderland lore; The past with its lights and its shadows depicted By hand that shall now lift the pencil no more.