18 Glasgow. Health failed him, he sought his native air, and is now engaged as I. BONNIE ANNIE HAY. Oh, Annie Hay, yer lichtsome glance An' left a ray o' simmer licht Whaur winter lang has been. What's sweeter, when life's mirk an' sad, But 'bune them a' thrills through the heart, TO-NIGHT I WATCHED THE BROAD RED SUN. II. He passed with his glorious pageant through But shed o'er the scene a wondrous glow I thought of the many lands he'd seen, With their madding crowds and hurrying Where wealth with misery meets. The Grampians' dim snowy peaks were tower- He murmured the names of the wildflowers ing Far up the midnight sky, The moon o'er the Sidlaws was slowly drifting, All sad and silently. The village in its snowy robe lay sleeping 'Neath the clear, starry dome, And the beechwood sang to the wind's low crooning Near the dear old silent home. Silent, save for his loud and rapid breathing-How thin and wasted now, As the moonlight wan through the window streaming Falls on his fevered brow. He had wearily crept to the old home, thinking, While his fevered blood ran high, springing In the old beechen wood; Anon he would shout, and then wildly laugh ing Pass to a saddened mood. To his fevered brain, while his life was ebbing, Cruel haunting fancies thronged; And he asked forgiveness, with white lips quivering, From those he had once wronged. Did they hear in their home beyond the stars shining, His wild and passionate prayer? For a calm spread over the poor face, smiling As if to dear faces There. What if they'd whispered forgiveness, and beckoned Him 'yond the starry dome, 'Mong the dear kind friends he had long for For his spirit soon left the worn clay for ever, saken To be forgiven, and die. And as he lay on the cold stones, unheeding The damp, deserted walls, The fireless hearth, and the silence brooding, Where the lovelight never falls, His brain wove dreams-He was fondly wandering A bright and careless boy; And a smile came over the worn face, lighting | It with a gladsome joy. And the dear old silent home. He had drifted beyond the world's cold sneering At his life's poor futile play; For, deaf to its taunts in the old home lonely, For ever at rest he lay. O'er the starry dome the clear stars still wandered, As o'er the village lone The wan moon looked down as it slowly drifted; The beechwood still sang on. 20 WILLIAM ARCHER. AMONG the many rhyming epistles elicited by correspondence regarding work, is one of more than usual excellence by the writer who now claims our attention. It is so appropriate personally, so good poetically, and so pertinent to our subject generally, that we reproduce it in lieu of many other and more prosaic details which otherwise might have been given. Mr Archer was born at Carnoustie in 1843; served for ten years as an apprentice and A.B. seaman; secured a mate's certificate, but passed on to an appointment in H.M. Customs at Dundee; has been several times promoted in this service, and now holds a responsible official position at London. His poetry is of a vigorous and original character, and has found many admirers during its appearance in numerous current channels of publication. Dear Sir, AN EPISTLE IN RHYME. Your note cam' safe an' straight Rare moments o' composure. For though dame Fortune, aft a blind I thank you for it an' yer strong That cheers me on to tune my song Yes! to possess that gift divine-- Is better than to own a mine, An' he wha lacks that gift o' gifts- Hoo can the feeble spirit soar The eye that never looks above Ye powers! O for some quiet nest But there, enough ; my thoughts maun turn But when yer wark glides gaily throo, THE TRIUMPH OF THE SWORD. Praise Marathon, the first of fields, whence Spartan warriors brave Relate how Roman legions bold swept mighty nations down, Let Britons tell of campaigns won, their breasts aglow with pride, Ye conquerors of Marathon, who smote the Persian host, Whose name still gleams through ages gone as Freedom's proudest boast, And point them truth-a surer trust than triumphs of the sword. Ye Romans, look down o'er the years; learn from your piles o'erthrown, THE DRUMMER OF AIRLIE. The rising sun shed a lustrous glow That smiled 'neath its cheering beams, as though No trouble intruded there. To the feathered songster's strain, And the wind scarce moved the spiky leaves And 'neath the castle's o'erhanging eaves The rings on the glassy stream, Where the sportive trout had leapt. And the butterfly sported his gaudy vest From the craggy hill and the shaggy tree, From the glassy stream and the daisied lea, But while thus blithely toned, The lady whose lord the landscape own'd That weighted her soul with dread. With echoing cadence, now far, now near, And she knew as it smote on her feverish ear When flooded lay mountain, glen, river and 'Neath the moonbeam's silv'ry tide. And squadrons of kilted and plaided men The clansmen of Airlie-lithe, hardy and 66 "For, true to my promise, I come to my post That calls to attention my phantom host, For o'er these flowery banks They shall hover by night and day, Till, taking his place in their spectral ranks, In a mist of tears her eyes grew dim, The glee-born anthem soar'd, DR DAVID ARROTT. THE HE ranks of our county bards have not been largely recruited from the honourable profession of which Dr Arrott was a distinguished ornament. His was a striking personality; and his life seemed a beatification of the divine arts of healing and of doing good. He would have scouted the idea of being considered a poet: indeed, the efforts which he strove rather to conceal than publicly to acknowledge, may be regarded as mere dallyings with the muses, and serve but as indications of what might have been, had his powerful intellect been turned more continuously in a special direction. Born at Arbroath, his professional life, founded on studies ably prosecuted at Edinburgh and Berlin, was spent in his native town, where his father had been "a doctor afore 'm," and where his skill and kindliness earned the confidence and esteem of the whole community. He died in 1876, and few there were who did not grieve as for a friend removed, when the good and genial Dr Arrott passed to his rest. As has been indicated, he did not write much; but that he has a clear title to be enrolled among the Bards of the Brothock, the interesting specimen which follows will certainly prove. I love to walk on a moonlight eve THE SEA. A MOONLIGHT MONODY, To watch the waves as they gently heave For the ocean seems singing a dirge for the Of the many-the fair and the brave; While over their ashes incessant it rolls Who have found 'mid the waters a grave. Full many a gallant heart beat high When the good ship left the strand. But the youthful heart has ceased to beat, They died in the midst of their youthful pride, No verdant turf is o'er them spread, For the coral rock is their pillow; But the pale moon keeps her watch on high, They are gone! let them rest till the time When the sea shall yield her dead; |