Smibert died at Edinburgh on the 16th January 1854, in his forty-fourth year. With pleasing manners, he was possessed of kindly dispositions, and was much cherished for his intelligent and interesting conversation.

In person he was strong built, and his complexion was fair and ruddy. He was not undesirous of reputation both as a poet and prose-writer, and has recorded his regret that he had devoted so much time to evanescent periodical literature. His poetry is replete with patriotic sentiment, and his strain is forcible and occasionally brilliant. His songs indicate a fine fancy and deep pathos.

THE SCOTTISH WIDOW'S LAMENT.

Afore the Lammas tide Had dun'd the birken-tree, In a' our water side Nae wife was bless'd like me.

A kind gudeman, and twa Sweet bairns were 'round me here, But they're a' ta'en awa'

Sin' the fa' o' the year.

Sair trouble cam' our gate, And made me, when it cam', A bird without a mate, A ewe without a lamb.

Our hay was yet to maw, And our corn was to shear, When they a' dwined awa'

In the fa' o' the year.

I downa look a-field, For aye I trow I see The form that was a bield To my wee bairns and me; But wind, and weet, and snaw, They never mair can fear, Sin' they a' got the ca'

In the fa' o' the year.

Aft on the hill at e'ens, I see him 'mang the ferns-- The lover o' my teens, The faither o' my bairns; For there his plaid I saw, As gloamin' aye drew near, But my a's now awa'

Sin' the fa' o' the year.

Our bonnie rigs theirsel', Reca' my waes to mind; Our puir dumb beasties tell O' a' that I hae tyned; For wha our wheat will saw, And wha our sheep will shear, Sin' my a' gaed awa'

In the fa' o' the year?

My hearth is growing cauld, And will be caulder still, And sair, sair in the fauld Will be the winter's chill; For peats were yet to ca', Our sheep they were to smear, When my a' pa.s.sed awa'

In the fa' o' the year.

I ettle whiles to spin, But wee, wee patterin' feet Come rinnin' out and in, And then I just maun greet; I ken it 's fancy a', And faster rows the tear, That my a' dwined awa'

In the fa' o' the year.

Be kind, O Heaven abune!

To ane sae wae and lane, And tak' her hamewards sune In pity o' her maen.

Lang ere the March winds blaw, May she, far far frae here, Meet them a' that's awa Sin' the fa' o' the year!

THE HERO OF ST JOHN D'ACRE.[25]

Once more on the broad-bosom'd ocean appearing The banner of England is spread to the breeze, And loud is the cheering that hails the uprearing Of glory's loved emblem, the pride of the seas.

No tempest shall daunt her, No victor-foe taunt her, What manhood can do in her cause shall be done-- Britannia's best seaman, The boast of her freemen, Will conquer or die by his colours and gun.

On Acre's proud turrets an ensign is flying, Which stout hearts are banded till death to uphold; And bold is their crying, and fierce their defying, When trench'd in their ramparts, unconquer'd of old.

But lo! in the offing, To punish their scoffing, Brave Napier appears, and their triumph is done; No danger can stay him, No foeman dismay him, He conquers or dies by his colours and gun.

Now low in the dust is the Crescent flag humbled, Its warriors are vanquish'd, their freedom is gone; The strong walls have tumbled, the proud towers are crumbled, And England's flag waves over ruin'd St John.

But Napier now tenders To Acre's defenders The aid of a friend when the combat is won; For mercy's sweet blossom Blooms fresh in his bosom, Who conquers or dies by his colours and gun.

"All hail to the hero!" his country is calling, And "hail to his comrades!" the faithful and brave, They fear'd not for falling, they knew no appalling, But fought like their fathers, the lords of the wave.

And long may the ocean, In calm and commotion, Rejoicing convey them where fame may be won, And when foes would wound us May Napier be round us, To conquer or die by their colours and gun!

FOOTNOTES:

[25] Admiral Sir Charles Napier.

OH! BONNIE ARE THE HOWES.

Oh! bonnie are the howes And sunny are the knowes That feed the kye and yowes Where my life's morn dawn'd; And brightly glance the rills That spring amang the hills And ca' the merry mills In my ain dear land.

But now I canna see The lammies on the lea, Nor hear the heather bee On this far, far strand.

I see nae father's ha', Nae burnie's waterfa', But wander far awa'

Frae my ain dear land.

My heart was free and light, My ingle burning bright, When ruin cam' by night Through a foe's fell hand.

I left my native air, I gaed to come nae mair; And now I sorrow sair For my ain dear land.

But blithely will I bide Whate'er may yet betide When ane is by my side On this far, far strand.

My Jean will soon be here This waefu' heart to cheer, And dry the fa'ing tear For my ain dear land.

OH! SAY NA YOU MAUN GANG AWA'.

Oh! say na you maun gang awa', Oh! say na you maun leave me; The dreaded hour that parts us twa Of peace and hope will reave me.

When you to distant sh.o.r.es are gane How could I bear to tarry, Where ilka tree and ilka stane Would mind me o' my Mary?

I couldna wander near yon woods That saw us oft caressing, And on our heads let fa' their buds In earnest o' their blessing.

Ilk stane wad mind me how we press'd Its half-o'erspreading heather, And how we lo'ed the least the best That made us creep thegither.

I couldna bide, when you are gane, My ain, my winsome dearie, I couldna stay to pine my lane-- I live but when I 'm near ye.

Then say na you maun gang awa', Oh! say na you maun leave me; For ah! the hour that parts us twa Of life itself will reave me.

JOHN BETHUNE.