There's a cheery ingle yonder, Wat an' weary? dainty dame, Lang an' faist, Meg, by ilk ither We've been stannin', toilin' sair; Fegs, we're wearin' dune thegither, An' maun sune rest evermair. Wat an' weary? ay, we'll sune Ha'e oor weary trauchles dune! MY CANNY AULD CHAIR. Ilk ane has a corner he likes abune a', It mayna be bonnie, it mayna be braw, But gin it be couthie, an' cosy, an' clean, He'll sit there as canty as ony, I ween ; Sae I ha'e a corner whaur I tyne my care, And sit like a king in my canny auld chair. The bairnies bizz roond like a bike o' wild bees; Their skep my auld ruskey, or aiblins my knees; There's daffin', there's din, an' there's rouchness nae doot," But, settled securely, I'm ne'er put aboot; My dearie, aye busy wi' housewifely cares, Or dealin' the wildies a cloot, or a cry; As neebors forgaither when gloamin' fa's doon, But Time tethers mony as he moves alang, THAE NOISY BAIRNS. Losh, sic a din! ye'd think the hoose I'm sure there's no' a wilder set There, that's a train-hear hoo they skirl, My very heid's just like to split They've coupit Curlie owre the stair! He's doon frae heid to fit ; Aha, they've startit up a schule, It's nocht but palmies richt an' left, They 're fair ootwith a' thack an' raip, I winder what 's come owre them noo? I doot it bodes a' comin' storm I tell't ye! Chick's a meenister— Noo, there's a fecht-weel, that cows a' I canna bear to hear them greet, THIS JAMES C. REID. THIS writer is a well-known citizen of Dundee, where he has lived, and laboured as a shipbuilder's clerk, during the last forty years. He was born at Aberdeen sixty years ago, and spent his youth and early manhood at Montrose. Prominent as a worker among children, and as an elder of Ogilvie Free Church, Mr Reid is respected and admired by all who come under the inspiration of his buoyant nature. He has written a good deal, but has not published much our example is culled from "Poems by the People." CHRISTMAS Hark! the hymn of praise ascending On the stilly air is borne; Voices sweet in chorus blending, Heralding the Christmas morn. In cathedral aisles are swelling Sweetest symphonies of praise; Angels from their lofty dwelling Bend to join our Christmas lays. Lowliest of all stooped down, MORN. Nations' brightest cor'nets sparkling, Haste to ends of earth remotest, Echo wide the hallelujah Swift o'er mount and valley borne, A WILLIAM REID. YOUNG Dundee writer, whose pieces in verse, and in very picturesque prose, are becoming familiar to readers of the local press, was born in the city of the Tay towards the close of the "sixties." He was educated and trained as a stationer at Dundee; and a period of residence at Scone was fruitful in directing his attention to the study of natural history, and in opening those avenues of expression which have their themes in rural life and experiences. Attendance for three years at the class of English Literature, in Dundee University College, has proved of the greatest benefit to Mr Reid, whose studies and work are full of good promise for the future. For the past five years he has acted as traveller for a leading stationery firm at Dundee. We give an example of his versification in a piece which appeared in the Evening Telegraph. I like to sit in the gloamin' time, GLOAMIN' TIME. And look back on the days, With their pleasant ways And their sunny memories dear ; To the cheery times "o' auld lang syne," When the foot was light And the eye was bright, When no clouds o'ershadowed the sky. MR DAVID DEMPSTER ROBERTSON. R ROBERTSON an Arbroath writer who was educated for the churchpublished in 1880 two small volumes of verse; the first, entitled "Damon and Ariel; or, Sonnets on Arbroath Abbey," and the other, "The Shadow over the Roof-Tree: or, the Eclipse of a Happy Home." The Sonnets number 118, and do not follow the orthodox rules of construction slavishly; but that they exhibit more facility of expression than is common to what the author terms "a maiden and imperfect performance," these quotations may show. SONNETS. 1. Hush'd is this lonely spot where sleep the dead; So listless now he seems, nor does complain Heedless how Fortune may her sceptre sway - III. Lone, as I gaze on this old Abbey, flits My fancy-borne upon a moonlight gleam Upreared by monkish toil. St. Thomas good, DAVID STEPHEN ROBERTSON. ANY poet might covet the distinction of having his verses set to music by a composer like Weiss, of Village Blacksmith fame. This was the fortune of D. S. Robertson, and this was the song in question : THE STORM-KING. Our ship rode well O'er the gathering swell, And nobly stemmed the assailing waves; All hearts were gay, When loud from the shore Came the lurking breakers' roar, And the storm-king's music from the caves. The wind blew strong, Filled the bosom of our mariners with fear; The thunder of his tread Shook the heavens overhead, And the lightning's vivid flash Hurled them leeward through the midnight Our foam-lashed-ship Vainly struggled in the grip Of the storm-king, vaunting in his sway: As he struck her right abaft, Then a low and gurgling sound, And our ship lay buried in the bay. Baritones, in Dundee and elsewhere, will be interested to have these particulars regarding the author of a popular song, which are given in that pleasant and chatty volume, Norrie's "Dundee Celebrities"-"A young townsman of more than ordinary promise, and who was cut down at a comparatively early age, was a member of the firm of Robertson and Dryden, Manufacturers and Merchants. Possessed of more than usual ability, he very early distinguished himself in the youthful literary societies of the time. He read much, was particularly well acquainted with modern poetry, was a pleasant versifier, and could imitate the styles of the different poets. He was also gifted with a singular faculty of reproducing not only the manner but the idiosyncrasies of diction of public men; and his representations added greatly to the amusements of many a social meeting. On the occasion of the opening of the Baxter Park he attracted the notice of Sir David Baxter, who, appreciating his vigorous and honourable character, proved a valuable friend. Mr Robertson was born at Dundee in 1841, and died at Newport in 1873." As has already been mentioned, D. S. Robertson collaborated with James Donnet in the production of "Lays of Love and Progress." We quote from another source, a prize poem of Robertson's, written in the style approved by the radical organs of the past. As a writer his style was smoother than Donnet's, but his verses lacked that strength of imagery and diction which is the charm of all that bears the marks of the latter's hand. Curiously enough, in the volume referred to no distinction was drawn between the dual writings, which were printed in the most promiscuous and hap-hazard manner. To Mr John Paul is due the credit of obtaining from relatives of both men such information as places beyond question the correct assignment of its various items. BETTER TIMES. To man, along the sounding beach "We come and go, and come again, Uprooted from the world's great heart In gentle tones the summer wind, Thus softly rhymes: "Faint not; my voice is God's, and He Ne'er meant man's soul should timid be As up he climbs That hill whose top he yet shall see In better times. "The Patriot's gory garnished sword As from oppression's inmost core The dove of peace shall love to soar Art from her august chamber looks "Thus far have I the mystery Of earth revealed to man, that he My aim to man-God's great decree, KEITH ROBERTSON. THE HE meteor-like career of this young journalist closed, as the result of an accident, at his native city, Dundee, in 1888, and when he was just in his twenty-first year. He was educated at Dundee High School, and studied at Edinburgh University with the intention of entering the ministerial calling. Certain literary essays made him abandon this plan, and he proceeded to London, where, after considerable conflict, he gained a fair measure of success in several minor journalistic directions. Mr Robertson wrote several slight, catchy stories, and was ready and fluent in his treatment of the general subjects that fell to his pen. His little poems are simply indications of what might have been, had his promising future been granted him. The youth made excellent use of his opportunities, and proved himself the possessor of an alert and vigorous literary faculty that might in time have reached a notable permanency. Oh, WHEN CAULD THE NOR'LAN' BREEZES BLAW. gang awa', thou bonnie bird, An' o' thy liltin' let me be; O' blithesome simmer dinna sing, Oh cease thy sang, or sing o' snaw, Oh, gang awa', thou blithesome bird, Deid is the simmer an' awa', Oh, gang awa', thou bonnie bird, When wae is a' my heart can crave; Then silent be till simmer braw, 26 26 |