Thy Harp and Lyre dost thou consign
To deep and everlasting slumbers?
And shall we listen but in vain

To hear their sweetly swelling numbers?

Dost thou forget the hills of Ross,

The dark streams winding down the valleys? Dost thou refuse to sing of Bruce

Or boast of glorious William Wallace?

Hast thou no relish for the

page Of bards who have bright laurels won In by-gone or in present age

Burns, Cowper, Byron, Tennyson?

Bard of the North! and art thou dumb,
When sunny days of Springtime come,
And when the heather is in bloom
Around thy native highland home?

Has the Autumnal eve and morn
No high and holy thoughts for thee?
And is the Wintry tempest shorn
Of grandeur and sublimity?

Bard of the North, let not thy Lyre
In deep oblivion slumber longer,
But wake with true poetic fire-
To accents nobler, bolder, stronger.

Not with the powerful thunder peal
Of noble patriotism only,

But with the strains that soothe and heal
The hearts that are both sad and lonely.

Thou hast a mission, doubt it not,

Though by the rich and great unheeded; If faithful to thy Lyre, I wot

But little is their friendship needed.

For stern and stalwart Highlandmen
Thy name and fame shall fondly cherish,

And in the homes of many a glen

Thy memory shall never perish.

And at the last they'll mourn thy loss
As they ne'er mourned for one before thee,
While all the lakes and streams of Ross
Shall join the lamentation o'er thee.

LAIRD KEYDEN'S LAST WISH.

Sixty or seventy years ago there was no name more familiar to the people of Linton than that of Mr Keyden, laird of Lynedale, and it was during the period in which he held possession of that small but beautiful estate that great improvements were made upon it. Mr Keyden had long entertained an idea that scarcely any spot was or could be so beautiful, and he often expressed a wish that at death he should, without pomp or ceremony, be decently interred in the green spot at the extremity of his own garden. This is situated on the banks of the Lyne, just before it enters a deep rocky glen; and forms one of the most picturesque scenes in the locality.

WHEN I my weary eyes have closed in death's unbroken sleep,

The promise which you give me now you faithfully will keep,
It is about my burial! You are not pledged nor bound
To lay me in the churchyard or in consecrated ground.
You will not mock my memory with pompous burial train,
With sad insignia of grief so hollow and so vain;

No! Let my dust be laid to rest in this delightful glen,
By neighbours and acquaintances, by homely honest men.
Down by the fence where terminates my pleasant garden
ground,

And close beside the winding stream where is a sweet green mound.

There oft the Spring and Summer flowers, so delicate and

rare,

I've marked with keen and eager eye-I wish to slumber

there.

You will erect no monument to mar the peaceful scene,

To scare the glorious sunbeams when they've kiss my grave

so green;

The brier bush and hawthorn near-I wish them still to

stand,

Altho', alas! their flowers must be culled by another hand.

The same sweet buds and flowers shall come when Spring and Summer call;

The stream shall waft the same sweet hymn adown its rocky hall;

The same delightful sunbeams shall as gently come and go, When peaceful is my slumber in the narrow bed below. Lynedale, delightful spot! ah, thou my joy thro' life hast been;

Why should we part when death shall close this fleeting earthly scene?

A ceaseless source of pleasure thou unto this heart of mine; Why should I not at last in peace upon thy breast recline?

We may state, that the wish of Laird Keyden was not complied with, his ashes being interred in an obscure and ill-kept corner of Linton Churchyard, where a plain marble slab in the wall bears the following simple inscription:-In_memory of William Keyden, Writer to the Signet, third son of the Rev. William Keyden, minister of Penpont, Dumfriesshire, who was born the 15th September 1768, and died on the 5th January 1826."

THE DAYS OF THE CROFTERS.

'TWAS trim an' trig, Rob Farquhar's rig, as kailyaird e'er could be,

'Twas bounded by the rustic brig, the hedge, an' hawthorn tree;

The bonnie burn that swept alang, an' wimpled doon the glen, Aye seemed to sing its sweetest sang near Robin's gable en'.

It wasna big, Rob Farquhar's rig-four acres, little mair— Yet mony a bonnie Summer's day did crummie nibble there, And Autumn saw his tatties braw, an' turnips fresh an' green, Nae better in the Lothians nor in Teviotdale were seen.

'Twas trim an' trig, Rob Farquhar's rig-the next was Davie Gray's;

Synd auld Will Weir, the pensioner, who wore the sojer's claes;

Then Sandy Lamb, wha lo'ed his dram; next douce auld Widow Cairns,

Wha foucht a noble battle for her fatherless wee bairns.

She proudly scorned the pauper's dole, and toiled baith late an' air',

That winsome lads an' lasses might be clad an' get their lear', An' to the warld sent honest sons, an' lasses trig an' braw, Sic as mak' Scotland loved at hame an' honoured far awa.

In vain we seek the hedge that marked the crofters' acres

now;

O' garden or o' hamestead snug nae trace is left, I trow;
In vain the wistfu' e'e noo turns to seek for ocht this day
To mind us o' douce Widow Cairns, or kindly Davie Gray;

Or Sojer Will, wi' martial air, or funny Sandy Lamb,
Wha used to sing baith late an' air' aye when he got the
dram,

Yet kindly to the neebors a', wha werena sweer to tell
That Saunders wi' his follies aye was warst just for himsel'.

'Tis fifty years since last we saw the reek o' Davie's lum,
Or heard auld Saunders lilt his sang, or Willie beat the drum,
An' yet it seems as yesterday that we were romping bairns,
An' rinnin' out an' in the byre to couthie Widow Cairns.

Alas! what strange emotions lie unspoken, unrevealed,
To see the crofters' acres form a'e nameless widespread field,
The fertile furrows now upturned by strangers-uncouth

men

Wha little for that history care o' whilk they little ken.

MUSINGS OF AN OBSCURE POET.

Do I believe my name shall live
When other names are dead,
That it shall not be in the grave
Of deepest darkness hid?
Do I presume my musings may
My memory prolong,

And that the world will care to keep

Some record of my song?

And when this mystic dream is past,
This fleeting tale is told,
Do I expect to be at last

In Fame's bright list enrolled?
When in the lone churchyard I sleep
In our dear native glen,
Shall I be in remembrance kept
More than my fellow men?

Oh, no! for shrouded in the mists
Of dark oblivion now,

Lie thoughts of many a manlier breast,
And many a nobler brow;

And Fame's proud hand hath oft refused
The laurel wreath to twine

For those whose fingers swept the lyre
More skilfully than mine.

Why do I hail then the wild storms
Of the dark Winter's day?

Why sing the Spring's delightful charms
In many a nameless lay?

Why so much love the Summer's flowers,
Its sunshine and its glee?

And why are Autumn's peaceful hours
So precious unto me?

It is because strange feelings dwell
Deep-seated in my breast,
Love of the grand and beautiful
That seeks to be exprest;

Keen sympathies, and strong desires,
And hopes that cheer and bless;
And warm emotions which no power
Can stifle or suppress.

And when I keenly ponder o'er
The mighty bards of old,

I prize their precious pages more
Than miser does his gold.