suited his times, but his sentimental and patriotic ditties have many commendable features also. Our last quotation was honoured in being sung for over one hundred consecutive nights in London, when the air was charged with Waterloo; and the other pieces deserve to live, though judged entirely on their merits.

THE GLOAMIN' HOUR.

The gloamin' hour I wadna gi'e
For a' the ither twenty-three,
Whether I linger on the lea,

Or loll upon the green;
Or listen to the lonely wave,
Or shelter in the gloomy cave,
While howling blasts around us rave,
If thou art with me, Jean.

The laverock blithely hails the dawn,
The lintie cheers at noon the lawn,
And sweetly, too, when ev'nin's fa’en,
The mavis sings unseen ;

The Emerald Isle has mony a gem,
And Albion mony a stately stem,
While Caledonia, cauld by them,

But sweeter is thy voice than a'
The feathered choir o' Fithie's shaw,
When gloamin' shades begin to draw
Around us, bonnie Jean.

The flower is fairest in the morn,
When on the breeze its balm is borne ;
But sweeter is the bloomin' thorn

That scents the gale, I ween,
While gloamin' spreads her azure veil
Upon the mountain and the dale,
And kindly we the Curfew hail,
That greets us, bonnie Jean.

THE THISTLE.

Has reared the spiny Thistle :
Yet not a gem bespeaks mair worth,
Nor Oak e'er sent mair prowess forth,
Than this rare plant, nursed in the north,
That Scotsmen ca' the Thistle.

Nane safely shall this plant provoke,
Has mony a hero's word bespoke,
Since Wallace and brave Carrick broke

The chain that bound the Thistle;
And when beside the blushing Rose,
And Shamrock that sae verdant grows,
Yet nane mair native glory shows
Than Caledonia's Thistle.

On Europe's crimson-dyed domain,
Or orient India's gowden plain,
Or Isles ayont th' Atlantic main,

They brawly ken the Thistle;
For Abercromby, Moore, and Graham,
Wi' mony a hero's deathless name,
Set high upon the rolls o' Fame,

Were born beside the Thistle.

In faith as firm as Grampian hill,
As Boreas free, that soughs at will,
And pure as ilka Norlan' rill,

Are those that guard the Thistle :
Then may its motto still incite
Deeds that will show, in glory bright,
Nane wi' impunity shall blight

Auld Scotia's pride, the Thistle !

THE GARLAND OF PEACE.

O! great were thy heroes, Marengo and Lodi,
When baleful Ambition bade Mercy adieu;
And great were thine, Jena, and Austerlitz bloody,
Yet greater, far greater, are thine, Waterloo!

Chorus-I'll weave a gay Garland, with Laurels entwining
Round Roses, and Thistles, with Shamrock combining ;
A garland with Olive, and Palm still inclining
Round Roses, and Thistles, with Shamrock combining
To crown our famed heroes who fought Waterloo.

Here eagle-eyed Wellington's flag once unfurled,
Brave Uxbridge his slaughter-winged scimitar drew ;
Bold Picton destruction on neighing hosts hurled,
To plant the fair Olive to mark Waterloo.

No more shall Napoleon his Eagles unpinion,

Nor Perjury more aid his oath-swerving crew;
No more shall War's demons dilate his dominion,
Nor blast the fair Olive that marks Waterloo.

May Europe this Emblem of harmony nourish,
Nor form the wild wish of contending anew;
And O! may the blossoms of Liberty flourish,

Enwreathed with the Olive on great Waterloo!

But Laurels are mingled with Cypress and Willow,
And plume-crested Palms with the cheer-chilling Yew !
For low lie our heroes on Honour's broad pillow,

Whose blood nursed the Olive on famed Waterloo!

THE

MARGARET RUSSELL.

HE writer of a poem entitled "The Name and the Memorial "--which extends to 121 stanzas, and is of considerable literary merit throughout--was a Dundee lady who died in 1866. In the same year her friends printed the piece for private circulation, and as a memento of one they esteemed. Quotation is somewhat difficult; but the following verses are fairly indicative of the general style and quality of the work.

THIS

JOHN SANDS.

HIS writer, who is a son of John Sim Sands, and a native of Arbroath, has taken a respectable place in literature; his book, "Out of the World, or Life at St. Kilda," having been instrumental in drawing the attention of masses of interested readers to the inhabitants of that solitary island. Mr Sands is a contributor of poetry to various publications; and it will be interesting to reproduce here his "Address" to one with whom his grandparent was so closely associated.

TO THE SHADE OF GEORGE MEALMAKER.

Soldier of Freedom, and her martyr too!
Who, armed with little but persistent zeal,
Fought in the van against the despot crew
That ruled the nation with a rod of steel,
Fain would the grandson of thy friend proclaim
Thy noble conduct, and revive thy name.

Thy fellow-martyrs have been recognised
As men of whom their country may be proud;
Who by the tyrant State were sacrificed
On purpose to intimidate the crowd:
And to perpetuate their memory
An obelisk was raised, but not to thee.

Yet thou wert steadfast in that evil time;
None fought more bravely, and none suffered
Cast into prison twice without a crime, [more;

And then transported to a desert shore, [wife,
Where, far from home, from children, and from
Buried alive, thou closed thy blameless life.
Patience, my friend! the hour approaches fast

When statues that our streets and squares Will from their lofty pedestals be cast, [disgrace

And those of better men obtain their place; And when that happy hour arrives, I trust Space will be found to hold thy name or bust.

In 1888, Mr Sands published at Arbroath a handsome volume of over 100 pages of poems, entitled "King James' Wedding, and other Rhymes," with abundant illustrations drawn by himself, Charles Keene, and others, excellently prefaced in verses, which are dated from Shetland. The principal poem deals, in a manner that is reminiscent of the style of the author's father, with that incident in Scottish history of the King so bravely setting out for Denmark, and, despite all difficulty, bringing home his foreign bride. These quotations of local and biographic interest will be welcomed by many who, for association's sake, may be induced to peruse the volume from which they are taken.

BONNIE DUNDEE.

EXTRACT.

In the days of my childhood, when railways were few,
And gaudy stagecoaches through Forfarshire flew,
And guards on keyed-bugles played right merrily,

I was taken to look at the sights of Dundee.

How bustling and big seemed the town in my eyes,
How foreign the customs and curious the cries;
Balsora or Bagdad not stranger could be

Than the streets and the natives of Bonnie Dundee.

The Barracks and Bridewell I gazed at with awe,
And the rickety train that was drawn up the Law ;
The Town House and window were both shown to me,
Where rogues in a halter were hung in Dundee.

The Houff with its medley of quaint sculptured stones-
Below one of which lay my grandfather's bones
At rest after battles by land and by sea-
I surveyed on my jaunt to Bonnie Dundee.

MY NATIVE TOWN.

THE

JOHN SIM

I learnt what death meant, as with awe
profound

I saw the bones of men dug from the ground.
Although the land around is low and bare,
Not so when young did it appear to me,
When with unwearied feet I wandered there,
Far from the coast and often by the sea ;
When every rural smell, and sound, and
sight

Made my heart throb with passionate delight.
Primeval forests since that distant time,

And sea-like lakes and rivers have I seen,
And mighty cataracts and cliffs sublime,
And mountain peaks with tropic boscage
green;

But in such scenes I never felt the joy
That filled my heart when rambling there a
boy.

THE son of an Arbroath man-Robert Sands, who also claims some notice among our bards-J. S. Sands was born at Perth in 1798. He became a lawyer, and for many years prior to 1844, when he removed to Perth, he practised as a "Writer" at Arbroath. Many of his poems, which were published in 1833 under the title, "Poems on Various Subjects: Political, Satirical, and Humorous," are on local subjects; but the dangerous weapon of satire lost none of its dire qualities in his hands. One of his creations, "Deacon Elshender," a sort of local Munchausen" or "John o' Arnha," gave him a standing in Arbroath almost coincident with that of George Beattie at Montrose; and his general writing is that of a man of considerable ability, who could transcribe his musings in very forcible language. As the publisher of Arbroath's first and short-lived paper the Arbroath Argus, and as a writer to various periodicals, Sands secured an excellent local literary reputation. He died at Perth in 1865. His volume of poems contain 220

66

pages, has a list of 300 subscribers, and is dedicated to the Provost, Magistrates, and Town Council of Arbroath.

THE THISTLE OF SCOTLAND.

Bright emblem of my country dear, 'neath which my sires have bled,
Oh! ever verdant be thy leaf and crimsoned be thy head;

Upon each hill and mountain fair, where a slave's foot ne'er hath been,
Oh! proudly may the thistle wave its stem of lovely green :
Oh! gaily may the thistle grow; oh! beauteous may it bloom,

The flower that twines its wreaths around the bonnet and the plume;
That in a thousand fields of fame victorious still has been,
And waved triumphant high its head-its leaves of evergreen.

Oh! proudly may the thistle wave on mountain, plain and lea,
The symbol of fair Scotland-the emblem of the free,

That springs upon the patriot's grave, and flowers upon the urn
Of Wallace dear of Elderslie, and Bruce of Bannockburn:
Oh! ever may the thistle wave on high its crimson crest;
The gallant badge our monarch wears implanted on his breast,
The sign of faith and loyalty and honour bright I ween;
Oh! ever o'er us may it wave its leaves of lovely green.

Oh! gaily may the thistle grow; oh! ever may it shine,

And round the peasant and the prince its hallowed wreaths entwine;

That still the bane of demagogues and traitors vile has been,

And o'er them waved its honoured crest, its leaves of evergreen:

Oh! ever proudly may it wave-the emblem dear to me!

The guardian of our native land, the ruler of the sea;

That still to fame and victory has led us on I ween,

And o'er a host of foreign foes has waved its leaf so green.

It savours somewhat of placing a premium on lying by honouring "Deacon Elshender" with any notice at all; but the erstwhile popularity of the narratives, which are mainly paraphrases of the stories told by a veritable. local character who acted at one time as Abbey Keeper, demands that a quotation and we will "draw it mild"-be made from the leading work of its author.

DEACON ELSHENDER'S VISIT TO LONDON.

But I'm relapsin'; whiles the soul
Is apt to tak' a rigmarole,

And o' her tale to lose the string;
Regardless time is on the wing,

Armed with his glass, and scythe, and dart,
To mak' the dearest friends to part.
Ech, ay! whar was I--ou ay, weel,
My honest father, decent chiel,
Seein' that nature in me puts

A little mair nor crap and guts,
What does he do without my kennin'
But ships me aff post haste for Lunnon!
To mak' amo' the Cockneys cash,
And knock their blacksmiths a' to smash.
He took me sleepin' on his back,
Frae Abbey Pend down to the smack,
And shipped me there-the deil an e'e
I opened for hours ninety-three;
Although the smack had fought ae day

Wi' twenty privateers, they say:
And though she rowed juist like an otter,
And her auld planks were saft as butter,
I never heard the cannons pappin',
Nor heard a mush till juist at Wappin'
We touched the beach and left the deep
After four days' refreshing sleep;
I started up a' kind o' famished,
An' no' a little, faith, astonished,
To find me in the midst o' Lunnon,
An' my wide pouches deil a coin in ;
But I saw things sae new and rare,
For meat and drink I didna care,
And absolutely think I could

I' the end have lived but drink or food,
Had I not been accustomed to them,
And was obligat that way to ha'e them.
Aweel, we landit at the ferry,

Wi' a scushel thing they ca' a wherry,