fully printed on fine paper, were bound by himself in superb styles. Such copies now fetch large prices at important book sales.

In 1850-1, Mr Brechin gave tangible expression to an idea which had long. possessed him, namely, that of printing Arabic numerals (figures) alongside of the Roman numerals (letters) used in the Scottish Book of Psalms; and in 1855 he perfected the idea by planning an edition distinguished by Arabic numerals alone, and which was eventually completed in 1859.

Mr Brechin has published four editions of the Bible at great personal expense. They are all characterised by the references being printed at the end of the verses. The collating, verifying, and adjusting of the series (about 70,000 refs.) was a laborious work, extending over a number of years. In all these editions the numbering of the chapters in the headlines corresponds with that of the Psalms. The author holds many testimonials of the public utility of his arrangements, which, when the copyrights expire, will doubtless be adopted by all Bible publishers, as is partly the case at the present time.

We give as a specimen of Mr Brechin's versification the opening and closing stanzas of an unpublished piece which narrates, in the dialect common to the district some fifty years ago, the pitiful story of Tag Merton, a poor, drunken cobbler :

I.

I' th' peat reek o' 'his scunnerin, ullie-crusie-lichtet den,
Tag scutter't cobblin' worn-oot shoon 'till affin efter ten;
An' never thocht he'd ony richt t' speak aboot 'imsel,

As bein' left ahint b' freens wha didna use 'im well.

II.

I've seen 'im in 'is tatter't breeks, black rozen 't at th' knees,

Wi' waxen wob-thrums till they luntet up like paintet wyre;

Th' whumlin' smacks o' Boreas, an' Spring's cauldrife searching breeze,
Swirled throwe 'is ither ragget duds like watter throwe a syre.

III.

I' th' bitter sleet 'is tangelt hair aneath th' lowerin' sky
Hung heavilie an' weet agin 'is ghaistlike, glaurie cheeks;
An' as 'e stacher't, splashin', drunk, oot at th' useless steeks
O' 'is past-mendin' bauchels sput th' snaw-broo splutteringly.

XXVII.

Th' hin'mist sands o' frail Tag's life are faa'n saftly doon,
He thinks he is an angel noo an' wears a gowden croon ;
An' he's singin' till a seraph's harp th' tender melodie---
Will ye gang t' th' ewe buchts, Marion, an' wear in th' sheep wi' me?"

XXVIII.

This blink o' Heav'n sheens whare 'is eldritch cantrips aye wer played,
Whin, middlin' fou, he yowl'd an' sang a reed-wid deil- -ma-care;
B't we've raised 'im frae th' reekin' strae, on a snaw-white bed he's laid,
Whare th' licht skin-an'-banes lie streck't t' fecht wi' drink nae mair.

XXIX.

I hold his palsied hand beneath my moist eye's trembling screen;

I bend my head-I shudder- a dread something stands between :

And, as he faintly struggles in its still resistless grip,

Tag's last long sighs are, "Johnnie-laad-He's-but-tin-in-up ma lip."

JOHN BREMNAR.

H ONEST John Bremnar died last year at the ripe age of 93, and with him departed much that was strongly individualistic, and reminiscent of bygone generations. It is recorded of him that as a town councillor he refused to vote for himself being made Treasurer, and indignantly left the council room with the significant utterance "Feich!" when his opponent's vote turned the scale in his own favour. He was well known as a printer and stationer in his native town; and to him Arbroath was indebted for its first supplies of steel pens and lucifer matches. His connection, also, as publisher and editor of a number of Arbroath newspapers, was long and important; and the honour belongs to him of founding the Arbroath Museum, one of the best equipped provincial institutions of its kind to be found in the country. "The Inchcape Bell, or The Sea Rover's Fate; a Metrical Legend," is the full title of a rhyming tale, published in the form of a ten page pamphlet by its author and printer, J. Bremnar, Arbroath, in 1846. At the close of the rhyme this note and quotation occur, "Sir Walter Scott visited the Bell Rock Lighthouse in 1814, and wrote the following lines in the album kept there:

Far in the bosom of the deep,

PHAROS LOQUITOR.

O'er these wild shelves, my watch I keep;

A ruddy gem of changeful light,

Bound on the dusky brow of night;
The seaman bids my lustre hail,
And scorns to strike his tim'rous sail.

The poem is simply a free reading of the legend immortalized by Southey, and commences as follows:

Near where the Brothock in her silver
pride

Mingles her waters with the flowing tide,
A holy Fane was raised by kingly power,
In stately form, 'twas Royal William's dower
To sainted Beckett's memory. There did
dwell

A pious Abbot, as old records tell,

Who had a heart could feel for others' woe
Could mingle with their feelings--was not slow
To aid, to succour, or devise a plan
To help in his distress his fellow man.

Moved by the loss of life and great mishap
That had so oft occurred at the Inchcape:
A dangerous reef of rocks that distant lie
As far from land as vision can descry;
O'er which the rolling waters flow and hide

THE

On it had foundered many a gallant bark:
The holy man, of whom I've mention made
As ever ready to bestow his aid.

Devised a plan-a plan that answered well :
Upon the Inchcape Rock he raised a bell,
Securely fixed upon a wooden stock ;

It swung above the wave and sunken rock,
Worked by a float, and as the waters rolled,
Tides rose or fell, by undulation tolled,
And warned the mariners, who'd that way
steer,

To shape their course the hidden reef to
clear.

JOHN BRIDIE.

HE late esteemed Chief Magistrate of Blairgowrie was born, reared, and started in life at Dundee, which he left in order to qualify himself thoroughly as a painter and decorator by the wider experience to be gained in the Metropolis and in Glasgow. He settled at Blairgowrie in 1855, and after

along and honourable career of usefulness as a professional and public man, and as one interested in art and literature for their own sakes, he died there in 1894. Bailie Bridie was a Justice of the Peace, and, in addition to serving repeated terms of office as Chief Magistrate of the Burgh, presided over the affairs of numerous boards and institutions in a most popular and capable manner. He was an excellent public speaker, and could use his poetic gift extemporaneously to good purpose on a public platform. His dialect poems are very pleasing efforts, and we reproduce one which seems almost unique in its simplicity, fulness, and humour, among pieces of its kind.

MR

66

THERE'S AYE SOME WATER WHAUR THE STIRKIE DROONS."

Oh, leeze me on the auld Scots sangs, I like to hear them sung:
They mind me o' my early days and hamely mither tongue :
But what can match the proverbs o' oor canny country toons?
Hech! "there's aye some water whaur the stirkie droons !"
"Oh, did you hear o' sie an' sic?" the village gossips say,
As they clash about the claivers an' the scandals o' the day:
There's mony an unco ferlie, but the latest story croons:
Ay!"there's aye some water whaur the stirkie droons!"
There's weaver Jock, the bachelor, sae often wi' the miller,
Whase only dochter, Jeanie, is expected to hae siller :
What cares he for the faither, or the mither, or the loons?
"There's aye some water whaur the stirkie droons!"
Ye've heard o' dandy Willie and the rumour that's afloat?
If he hadna been amon' the craws he wadna hae been shot.
We needna trust to ilka idle tale that gangs the roun's,
"There's aye some water whaur the stirkie droons!"

An' there's oor neebor lassies, too, are gettin' unco braw,
Their fashions an' their falderals are no like them ava;

There's something at the bottom o' their ribbons an' their goons,
For "there's aye some water whaur the stirkie droons!"

An' there is Tam, the manager, whase cunnin' ends are saired
By cuttin' auld acquantances an' votin' wi' the laird ;
Gie him the cash, he heeds na for your favours or your froons→→
Yea, there's aye some water whaur the stirkie droons!"
An' what aboot oor merchants noo, sae lang in opposition?
There's naething noo but thrangity--it's open to suspicion.
There's something sure to happen to astonish a' the Broons,
For "there's aye some water whaur the stirkie droons!”

Gie me the steady-mindit folk that's either in or oot,

Ye'll aye ken whaur to find them, for they 're there or there aboot ;
But what can be the meanin' o' sae mony ups an' doons?

Och! "there's aye some water whaur the stirkie droons!"

ALEXANDER BROWN.

R BROWN'S claim to be regarded as one of the Bards of the Brothock is perfectly valid; for, though born at Penicuik in 1823, he had his home in Arbroath during the forty years of his service in the various grades of a

seafaring life, and it is now the scene of his well-earned retirement from active duty. He has made many contributions to the local press, some of them of distinct merit; one of the most popular of these being the racy song which follows, and which any writer might be proud to acknowledge.

THE AULD STOCKIN' FIT.

Before ye settle doon in life, ye've mony things to learn,
Among the foremost ane is this, tak' care o' what you earn ;
Lay bye ilk orra penny piece-nane ever rued it yet,
An' gin ye ha'e nae better purse, just tak' a stockin' fit.

Ilk penny hain'd 's a penny gained; when added to the stock,
It mak's ye feel within yersel' as guid as ither folk:
You never need to skulk around, nor in a corner sit ;
There's a ring o' independence in a weel-filled stockin' fit.

You'll aye ha'e routh o' freends around, while a' gangs fair and richt,
To flatter ye and daut ye-an' scarce lat ye frae their sicht;
An' that may be a' very well, but the best friend at the bit
Is "Victoria's" winsome visage in a weel-filled stockin' fit.

Sair trouble may o'ertak' ye-for it's been the doom o' man,
And want o' wark, or sickness, may aft thwart your best laid plan;
There's a Providence abune us a' that never failed us yet;
Sae put implicit faith in that, and in your stockin' fit."

Aye try to help a neighbour that's bowed doon wi' sair distress,
He'd maybe do the same by you, so you sud do nae less;
Ne'er turn the feeble frae your door, provide them sup and bit,
So may a blessing aye attend upon your stockin' fit.

Be carefu', but not niggardly, gi'e every man his due ;
You'll ha'e to keep a sharp look-out, he'll do the same by you;
Aye drap the ither penny in, 'twill swell up bit by bit,
An' there's music in the jingle o' a weel-filled stockin' fit.

JAMES PENNYCOOK BROWN.

"POETICAL EPHEMERAS" is one of those solitary volumes by Scottish

authors, presenting nothing that is distinctively Scottish and little that is generally interesting to the average Scot, however good may be its literary flavour. That there are strong features in the work, our extracts clearly show there are, indeed, few Scottish books where merit of its kind is more conspicuous than here; but we miss those kenspeckle contours and colours with which our native bards have familiarized us; and all the more, may it not be because of the presence of other excellencies. Mr Brown was a native of the Mearns, his father being a farmer there; but reverses occurring, the family settled at Brechin, where the senior went into employment as a gardener. Mrs Brown, whose name was Pennycook, was a native of the ancient city; and, judging from her son's poems, was the centre of a very devoted home circle. The poet became a compositor, and published his volume, "Poetical Ephemeras," while working in the office of the Aberdeen Journal in 1831. It is a beautifully printed book of 208 pages, and its merits,

an

otherwise, seem to have forwarded the interests of its author, who secured appointment on a Society connected with Exeter Hall, London. He emigrated to Canada, and on returning visited Brechin and Elgin, at which latter place he had worked in earlier years, and where his death occurred in

1862.

THE FORSAKEN HEARTH.

He sat beside his forsaken hearth,
And mute were the gladsome tones of mirth
That once from the lips of the loved and young
Gladdened his heart with the songs they sung,

The songs of his youthful years.
His thin grey hairs o'er his high brow fell,
Whitened by griefs which he might not tell;
Wan were his cheeks, and his eyes' dim light
Shone, weak as the faintest star of light,
Through its misty world of tears.

A lute was hung on the cottage wall,
Its tones were beloved in their joy by all;
But silent it hung; they were gone, all gone,
Who wakened the sweets of each silvery tone,
Away from their father's hearth.

They
were parted all; they had gone away,
As sunbeams go from their fount astray;
For the world in the light of their eyes' bright
beams

Looked the fairy land they had seen in dreams,
And they trode with joy the earth.

He sighs for the songs and the bursts of glee
From their young hearts flowing in gladness
free,

And the sunset hours, where their steps were heard

In the shadowy grove, by the leaves they stirred:

As the leaves their hearts were light. They meet no more in the evening hour

It has been asserted of Brown: "Humour he has none, while the solitary attempt at a rollicking song in his book, 'Come, push the bottle round,' is a sample of exceedingly small beer." This is not quite fair. Certainly the prevailing tone of Brown's poems is quiet, or sombre; but there is at least one clear indication that he possessed the faculty denied him in the critique just quoted. For instance: here is a stanza from "A Serenader's Apology," which exhibits the gift in that refinement natural to the action of such a writer:

You say my heart is colder grown
In love to you, my chosen ;
It is a fact I can't disown,

For sure 'tis almost frozen

By watching when the stars of night
Through gloomy clouds were peeping,
Or wandering like a troubled sprite
When decent folks were sleeping.

"Bards of Bon Accord."