PART III.

He gar'd intreat the Substitute,
To lat the Depute weigh the suit;
Which was allow'd; but foul a sneeshin
The farmer made o' that pateeshun.
The Sheriff-depute of the laws
Soon ga'e his verdict on the cause,
Confirm'd the Substitute's decree,
Concerning a' the besom plea,

And faund it right; for feint a hair
He made it either less nor mair.
They made the laird lay down the ten
White shillings for the pleaders then ;
And for the broom twal pennies mair,
That wis allow'd the farmer there :
But though the farmer wan the law
His profit wis but very sma':
For a' his wit an' grippin' greed,
He scarcely wan a scone o' bread.
He tried his rural rustic sense,
To bring the laird into expense;
But I believe, to count a' cost,
He very near as muckle lost
Frae first to last about the plea,
As his opponent, laird Daniee.
And sorrow care, it was a shame
To him to run sae far frae hame,

And strive to purge his neebor's purse,
About a cause nae worth a curse.
But fan he cudna win awa'
Wi' a' the honour at the law;
He tried to turn anither wheel,
To wind the laird a pirn to reel.
In Logie moss, the carle said,
The laird sud never dip a spade:

Though he sud gang for peats and sods
Unto the very Antipodes.

But there again he wis defeat;
The laird wis na sae very blate
As want his winter fire, or cross
Himsel' to seek anither moss :

He gaed to Logie, tell'd the laird- -
Said Kilrie, cast or ye be saird,
While I am laird of Logie moss,
Ye needna want for sods and dross:
And tell my tenant, Ladywell,
That I'll be your moss-grieve mysel.
Then to the moss Damee again
Return'd, wi' mony ither men ;
And fell to wark, and wisna slack
Amo' the lave to bow his back;
He coost at sods wi' a' his power,
For fire, the finest winter flower.
The farmer cam' to tak' his spade.
But look'd as gin his nose had bled
Fan he began to understand
The laird of Logie ga'e command,
He cast his sods to please himsel,
In spite of moss-grieve Ladywell;
But after a' that has been said,
The farmer's learned anither trade;
His prenti ship is fairly past,
An' he's a besom-wright at last.
If he be willing, I am sure
He may uphaud a' Kirriemuir,
An' a' the country far and near
Of good broom besoms now; for here
Their price was never, great or sma`,
So dear as his was at the law.

WILLIAM CARGILL ANGUS.

THIS young soldier, whose "Notes from Gibraltar," and varied lyrics have appeared from time to time in the papers of his native town, Arbroath, was born in 1870, and served for a short time as apprentice to the trade of tinsmith. Being of a lively disposition he joined the army, and served a seven years term in the Black Watch regiment. Returning home, he pursued several callings with but little encouragement; and has now settled in Arbroath, bent on serving out his original apprenticeship.

Mr Angus has seen much of the world, and has tried and studied life in a myriad phases. He writes of his experiences with vigour and charm, and their contemplated recital in book form is likely to prove interesting and entertaining. But it is as a poet that we have to do with Mr Angus; and from a careful study of his poems we are constrained to say at once, and with no uncertainty, that his work is of singular excellence. His earlier style, which is illustrated by the simple song "My Bonnie Jean," has merged into, or has been eclipsed by the powerful messages of a later development.

His "Songs of Labour" are the sincere, strong, sympathetic utterances of one who agonizes no other word can be so appropriate over the burdens of the toil-worn and the miserable; and, whatever may be the attitude of his readers to the poet's socialistic gospel, no dispassionate critique will refuse to award him the palm for power of utterance, mingled strength and tenderness of expression, and a nameless charm which appeals to the heart like "deep calling unto deep." The title of Mr Angus's recently published volume is "Under the Shadow" we quote two of its numbers, to show the author in his favourite aspects; but the book is one to be studied in its entirety, for no quotations can do justice to its fervour and variety.

The mist is risin' owre the hill,

MY BONNIE JEAN.

The mune is on the sea,
And ilka ripplin' rill, my Jean.
Rows fancy hame to thee;
Upon the wings o' west-bound winds
Fond memory roves at e'en,

And aye its fondest, sweetest theme
Is thee, my bonnie Jean.

I hear your voice at break of day,
When liltin' larks upspring;

I hear it in the sunny noon,
When blackbirds sweetly sing;
I hear it in the dewy eve,

When shadows darken doon,
And ilka echo in the glen
The happy notes resoun'.

I see your beauty unadorned
In Nature's forms sae fair,-
In ilka bluid-red rose that blooms
I see you blushin' there;

I see the glistenin' o' your een
In ilka drap o' dew,
Reflectin' back the mornin's sun
Wi' rainbow's varied hue.

Roll on, ye creamy crested waves ;
Ye broad white sails, shake free,
And spread them oot, ye west-bound winds,
To bear me owre the sea;

On wings that ken the swallow's flight,
The petrel's fearless mien,

Sure as a dove that homeward roves
I'll speed to thee, my Jean!

THE SONG OF THE SAW.

"There's music in all things if only men had ears.' -Byron.

There is music e'en in a grating saw,
Or the whirring of a wheel,
With a note of pathos, a touch of awe,
Had men but the souls to feel.

It sings me a song of care and toil,

When the lonesome days are dreary : Of dust and din, and the dread turmoil, My spirit is oft aweary.

Or, again, it croons a song of cheer,

And my lone heart leaps to greet it--"The bread of labour is sweet, if dear, And the noblest of all men eat it."

It sings of forests far away,

And I dream--with a sense of pain
Of bright blue sky, and shimmering bay,
That I never may see again;

Where tall trees rear their heads to the sky,
With an air of strength and pride:
But now, round the saw I see them lie
Like birds that have pined and died.

But it can sing me a tenderer lay;
And visions of home will rise,
With a bright fireside, and a child at play,
To gladden my aching eyes.

This lay is dearer than man may know,

Though blending my hopes with fears; And deep in my soul the voice falls low, Soft touching the fount of tears.

So all day by the saw I play my part,
And sings me a simple lay;
But the strange, harsh song sank deep in my
heart,

And taught me this truth to-day

In the souls of men are the notes of a song,
If we only could touch the chords;
Then upward would swell the grand voice of
the throng,

And "Peace, love on earth" are the words.

For the soul of the universe 'wakes to life
Like a child from the womb of time;
And the red sun must set on the worker's
strife,

To rise on a peace sublime.

When souls and lives shall be dearer than
gold,

And the living God, on his throne,
See poverty but "as a tale that is told,"
In a world where strife is unknown.

HEATHER AN' WHIN.

The days they are dowie when winter is drear,
But spring follows winter, an' summer will cheer;
And I dream, as I toil in the dust and the din,
O' the lang summer days among heather an' whin;
'Mong heather an' whin, among heather an' whin,
My heart's on the moor aye 'mong heather an' whin.
Ye may boast o' your pansy, or posies fu' gay,
But I lo'e the tansy, that grows on the brae,
The swish o' the broom, an' the splash o' the linn,
An' the purple an' yellow o' heather an' whin;
O' heather an' whin, o' heather an' whin,
The purple an' yellow o' heather an' whin.

There, love, let us rove, breathe the free caller air,
Behind us the strife, a' the toil and the care;
Nae master we'll own then, save He that's within,
Naught but freedom an' love among heather an' whin;
'Mong heather an' whin, among heather an' whin,
Naught but freedom an' love among heather an' whin.

Nae curtains o' commerce shall darken the lift,
Or the white, fleecy clouds wi' the blue i' the rift;
The reeshle o' wheels, as they rattle and rin,
Shall be lost in the lark's sang, 'mong heather an' whin,
'Mong heather an' whin, among heather an' whin;
O, blythe will our hearts be 'mong heather an' whin.

I ha'e watched the wee waifs i' the city so glum,
Marred i' their childhood wi' blight o' the slum,
Like flo'ers in a desert o' grim want and sin,

An' fain wad I see them 'mong heather an' whin ;
'Mong heather an' whin, among heather an' whin,

To bring bloom to their pale cheeks 'mong heather an' whin.

An' O, but I hope, too, to see the day dawn

When nae man shall claim ought o' earth as his own;

When the Right shall be Right, an' the Right that Truth's in,

Be the law that disposes o' heather and whin;

O' heather an' whin, o' heather an' whin,

An' nae man be laird o' the heather an' whin.

ONE

ALEXANDER ARBUTHNOT.

NE of the most notable names in the annals of his times is that of Alexander Arbuthnot, a man whose character and general achievements apart from his pioneer work in the fields of poetry-form a study of singular attraction. He was born in 1538 at Arbuthnot, the seat of the noble family of which he was a descendant, and studied for the legal profession.

Circumstances induced him to enter the church; and his presentation in 1569 to the high office of Principal of King's College, Aberdeen, shows clearly how rapid and thorough was the general recognition of those abilities which gained for Arbuthnot the reputation of being the most learned man in Europe. His career as a scholar, ecclesiastic, and professor, was of the greatest distinction; and it is regrettable that it closed somewhat prematurely in 1583, and ere he of whom Spotswood affirms "He was greatly loved of all men, hated of none," had completed his forty-fifth year. Cullen in his Chronicle states that Arbuthnot "was burit in the pariss kyrk of Aberdeen afor the pulpitt": few great men have left so fair a reputation as he whom James Melville termed "a man of singular gifts of learning, wisdom, godliness, and sweetness of nature."

Only a few of Arbuthnot's poems are preserved to us, and of these "The Miseries of a pure (poor) Scolar" and The Praises of Wemen" are most favourably regarded. The following quotation from the first of these pieces gives an interesting glimpse of literary matters in Reformed Scotland:

In poetrie I preis to pas the tyme,

When cairfull thochts with sorrow sailyes

me;

Bot gif I mell with meter or with ryme,

With rascal rymours I sall rakint be:
They sall me bourdin als with mony lie,
In charging me with that quhilk never I ment.
Quhat marvel is thoch I murne and lament?

I wald travel, and ydleness I hait,

Gif I could find sum gude vocation;

But all for nocht; in vain lang may I wait,

Or I get honest occupation:

Letters are lichtliet in our natioun,

For lernyng now is nother lyf nor rent.

Quhat marvel is thoch I murne and lament?

"The Praises of Wemen" is a poem of a sprightly character, consisting of 224 lines, from which we give this further specimen :—

To man

obedient

Even lyk ane willie wand;
Bayth faythfull and fervent,

Ay reddie at command.

They luif maist leill, thoch men do feill,
And schaikis oft of hand.

Quhair anes they love thay not remove;
Bot steidfastly thay stand.

And, rychtlie to compair,
Scho is ane turtill trew;

Hir fedderis ar rycht fair,
And of a hevinlie hew.

Ane luifing wicht, baith fair and bricht,
Gud properties anew.

Freind with delyte; so but dispyte
Quha luves hir sall not rew.
Suppose scho seim offendit,
Quhen men dois hir constraine;
That falt is sone amendit,
Hir mind is so humaine.
Scho is content, gif men repent
Thair fault; and turne agane.
Scho has no gyle, nor subtil wyle,
Hir pathis ar ay plane.

DAVID WALLACE ARCHER.

THAT HAT lively little town on the uplands of Angus, yclept variously as Kirriemuir, Killiemuir, Kirrie, and Thrums, was, in 1862, the scene of D. W. Archer's birth, as it is now his habitation and his occasional inspiration as a writer of both prose and verse. Mr Archer was educated at Webster's Seminary, and learned the business of a grocer in his native town. Grocery he never liked; and he fell from the pan to the fire in becoming a law clerk at