One fine summer afternoon, shortly after I had made this acquisition, two young Americans made their appearance, with letters of introduction from some honoured friends. There was no mention of profession or calling, but I soon found that they were not only men of intelligence and education, but of literary taste and knowledge; one especially had the look, the air, the conversation of a poet. We talked on many subjects, and got at last to the delicate question of American reprints of English authors; on which, much to their delight and a little to their surprise, there was no disagreement; I for my poor part pleading guilty to the taking pleasure in such a diffusion of my humble works. "Besides," continued I, "you send us better things-things otherwise unattainable. I could only procure the fine poems of Motherwell in this Boston edition." My two visitors smiled at each other. "This is a most singular coincidence," cried the one whom I knew by instinct to be a poet. I am a younger partner in this Boston house, and at my pressing instance this book was reprinted. I cannot tell you how pleased I am to see it here!"

Mr. Field's visit was necessarily brief; but that short interview has laid the foundation of a friendship which will, I think, last as long as my frail life, and of which the benefit is all on my side. He sends me charming letters, verses which are fast ripening into true poetry, excellent books; and this autumn he brought back himself, and came to pay me a second visit; and he must come again, for of all the kindnesses with which he loads me, I like his company best.

My heid is like to rend, Willie,
My heart is like to break,—
I'm wearin' aff my feet, Willie,
I'm dying for your sake!
O lay your cheek to mine, Willie,
Your hand on my briest-bane,-
O say ye'll think on me, Willie,
When I am deid and gane!

It's vain to comfort me, Willie,

Sair grief maun ha'e its will,-
But let me rest upon your briest,
To sab and greet my fill.
Let me sit on your knee, Willie,
Let me shed by your hair,
And look into the face, Willie,
I never sall see mair!

I'm sittin' on your knee, Willie,
For the last time in my life,-
A puir heart-broken thing, Willie,
A mither, yet nae wife.

Ay, press your hand upon my heart,
And press it mair and mair,—
Or it will burst the silken twine,
Sae strong is its despair!

Oh wae's me for the hour, Willie,
When we thegither met,-
Oh wae's me for the time, Willie,
That our first tryst was set!
Oh wae's me for the loanin' green
Where we were wont to gae,-
And wae's me for the destinie
That gart me luve thee sae!

Oh! dinna mind my words, Willie,
I downa seek to blame,—
But oh! it's hard to live, Willie,

And dree a warld's shame!

VOL. II.

Het tears are hailin' o'er your cheek
And hailin' o'er your chin;

Why weep ye sae for worthlessness,
For sorrow and for sin ?

I'm weary o' this warld, Willie,
And sick wi' a' I see,-

I canna live as I hae lived,

Or be as I should be.

But fauld unto your heart, Willie,

The heart that still is thine,

And kiss ance mair the white white cheek
Ye said was red lang syne.

A stoun' gaes through my heid, Willie,
A sair stoun' through my heart,—
Oh! haud me up and let me kiss

Thy brow ere we twa pairt.

Anither, and anither yet,

How fast my heart-strings break!— Fareweel! fareweel! through yon kirkyard Step lichtly for my sake!

The laverock in the lift, Willie,

That lilts far ower our heid,
Will sing the morn as merrilie
Abune the clay-cauld deid;
And this green turf we're sittin' on
Wi' dew-draps shimmerin' sheen,
Will hap the heart that luvit thee
As warld has seldom seen.

But oh! remember me, Willie,

On land where'er ye be,

And oh think on the leal, leal heart,

That ne'er luvit ane but thee!

And oh think on the cauld, cauld mools,

That file my yellow hair,—

That kiss the cheek, and kiss the chin

Ye never sall kiss mair!

The following Cavalier Song was first given by Motherwell as an original manuscript by Lovelace, accidentally discovered on a fly-leaf of his poems. The story found believers. They ought to have seen that the imitation, though very skilful, was too close. Lovelace was the last man in the world to have repeated his own turns of phrase.

A steede! a steede of matchless speed,

A sword of metal keene!

All else to noble heartes is drosse,
All else on earth is meane.

The neighyinge of the war-horse prowde,
The rowlinge of the drum,

The clangor of the trumpet lowde,

Be soundes from heaven that come.
And oh! the thundering presse of knightes
When as their war-cryes swell,

May toll from heaven an angel brighte,

And rouse a fiend from hell.

Then mounte! then mounte brave gallants, all,

And don your helmes amaine ;

Death's couriers, Fame and Honour, call

Us to the field againe.

No shrewish teares shall fill our eye

When the sword-hilt's in our hand-
Heart-whole we'll part, and no whit sighe

For the fayrest of the land;
Let piping swaine and craven wight
Thus weep and puling crye,
Our business is like men to fight,
And hero-like to die!

JEANIE MORRISON.

I've wandered east, I've wandered west,

Through mony a weary way;

But never, never can forget

The luve o' life's young day!

The fire that's blawn on Beltane e'en
May weel be black gin Yule;
But blacker fa' awaits the heart
Where first fond love grows cule.

O dear, dear Jeanie Morrison,

The thochts o' bygane years
Still fling their shadows ow'r my path
And blind my een wi' tears:
They blind my een wi' saut, saut tears,
And sair and sick I pine,

As memory idly summons up

The blithe blinks o' langsyne.

"Twas then we luvit ilk ither weel,

"Twas then we twa did part;

Sweet time! sad time! twa bairns at schule,

Twa bairns and but ae heart!

"Twas then we sat on ae laigh bink,

To leir ilk ither lear;

And tones and looks and smiles were shed,

Remembered ever mair.

I wonder, Jeanie, aften yet,

When sitting on that bink,

Cheek touchin' cheek, loof locked in loof, What our wee heads could think? When baith bent doun ower ae braid page Wi' ae buik on our knee,

Thy lips were on thy lesson, but

My lesson was in thee.

Oh mind ye how we hung our heads,
How cheeks brent red wi' shame,
Whene'er the schule-weans laughin' said
We cleeked thegither hame?

And mind ye o' the Saturdays

(The scule then skail't at noon),

When we ran aff to speel the braes,

The broomy braes o' June?