WILLIAM M. HETHERINGTON, D.D., LL.D.

An accomplished theologian and historical writer, William Hetherington was born on the Galloway side of the valley of the Nith, about the year 1805. With an average education at the parish school, he entered the University of Edinburgh, where he speedily acquired distinction. Amidst studies of a severer nature, he found relaxation in the composition of verses, celebrating the national manners and the interesting scenes of his nativity. These appeared in 1829, in a duodecimo volume, ent.i.tled, "Twelve Dramatic Sketches, founded on the Pastoral Poetry of Scotland."

Having obtained licence as a probationer of the Established Church, he was in 1836 ordained to the ministerial charge of the parish of Torphichen in the Presbytery of Linlithgow. He joined the Free Church in 1843, and was afterwards translated to St Andrews. In 1848 he became minister of Free St Paul's Church, Edinburgh.

Besides his poetical work, Dr Hetherington has published, "The Fulness of Time," "History of the Church of Scotland," "The Minister's Family,"

and several separate lectures on different subjects. He was, during the first four years of its existence, editor of the _Free Church Magazine_.

Formerly a frequent contributor to the more esteemed religious periodicals, he has latterly written chiefly for the _British and Foreign Evangelical Review_.

'TIS SWEET WI' BLITHESOME HEART TO STRAY.

'Tis sweet wi' blithesome heart to stray, In the blushing dawn o' infant day; But sweeter than dewy morn can be, Is an hour i' the mild moonlight wi' thee; An hour wi' thee, an hour wi' thee, An hour i' the mild moonlight wi' thee; The half o' my life I 'd gladly gie For an hour i' the mild moonlight wi' thee.

The garish sun has sunk to rest; The star o' gloaming gilds the west; The gentle moon comes smiling on, And her veil o'er the silent earth is thrown: Then come, sweet maid, oh, come wi' me!

The whispering night-breeze calls on thee; Oh, come and roam o'er the lily lea, An hour i' the mild moonlight wi' me.

For wealth let warldlings cark and moil, Let pride for empty honours toil, I 'd a' their wealth and honours gie For ae sweet hour, dear maid, wi' thee.

An hour wi' thee, an hour wi' thee, An hour i' the mild moonlight wi' thee; Earth's stores and t.i.tles a' I 'd gie For an hour i' the mild moonlight wi' thee.

O SWEET IS THE BLOSSOM.

O sweet is the blossom o' the hawthorn tree, The bonnie milky blossom o' the hawthorn tree, When the saft westlin wind, as it wanders o'er the lea, Comes laden wi' the breath o' the hawthorn tree.

Lovely is the rose in the dewy month o' June, An' the lily gently bending beneath the sunny noon; But dewy rose nor lily fair is half sae sweet to me, As the bonnie milky blossom o' the hawthorn tree.

Oh, blithe at fair an' market fu' aften I hae been, An' wi' a crony frank an' leal, some happy hours I 've seen; But the happiest hours I ere enjoy'd, were shared, my love, wi' thee, In the gloaming 'neath the bonnie, bonnie hawthorn tree.

Sweetly sang the blackbird, low in the woody glen, And fragrance sweet spread on the gale, light o'er the dewy plain; But thy saft voice an' sighing breath were sweeter far to me, While whispering o' love beneath the hawthorn tree.

Old Time may wave his dusky wing, an' Chance may cast his die, And the rainbow hues of flatterin' Hope may darken in the sky; Gay Summer pa.s.s, an' Winter stalk stern o'er the frozen lea, Nor leaf, nor milky blossom deck the hawthorn tree:

But still'd maun be the pulse that wakes this glowing heart o' mine, For me nae mair the spring maun bud, nor summer blossoms shine, An' low maun be my hame, sweet maid, ere I be false to thee, Or forget the vows I breathed beneath the hawthorn tree.

THOMAS WATSON.

Thomas Watson, author of "The Rhymer's Family," a small volume of poems, published in 1847, was born at Arbroath about the year 1807. He some time wrought as a weaver, but has latterly adopted the trade of a house-painter. He continues to reside in his native place.

THE SQUIRE O' LOW DEGREE.

My luve 's a flower in garden fair, Her beauty charms the sicht o' men; And I 'm a weed upon the wolde, For nane reck how I fare or fen'.

She blooms in beild o' castle wa', I bide the blast o' povertie; My covert looks are treasures stown-- Sae how culd my luve think o' me?

My luve is like the dawn o' day, She wears a veil o' woven mist; And h.o.a.ry cranreuch deftly flower'd, Lies paling on her maiden breast; Her kirtle at her jimpy waist, Has studs o' gowd to clasp it wi'

She decks her hair wi' pearlis rare-- And how culd my luve think o' me?

My cloak is o' the Friesland gray, My doublet o' the gay Walloon, I wear the spurs o' siller sheen, And yet I am a landless loon; I ride a steed o' Flanders breed, I beare a sword upon my theigh, And that is a' my graith and gear-- Sae how culd my luve think o' me?

My luve's rose lips breathe sweet perfume, Twa pearlie raws pure faire atween, The happie dimples dent her cheeks, And diamonds low in her dark e'en; Her haire is o' the gowden licht, But dark the fringes o' her bree; Her smile wuld warm cauld winter's heart-- But how culd my luve think o' me?

My luve is tended like a queen, She sits among her maidens fair; There 's ane to send, and ane to sew, And ane to kame her gowden hair; The lutestrings luve her fingers sma', Her lips are steept in melodie; My heart is fu'--my e'en rin ower-- Oh, how culd my luve think o' me?

My luve she sits her palfrey white, Mair fair to see than makar's dream O' faery queen on moonbeam bricht, Or mermaid on the saut sea faem.

A belted knicht is by her side, I 'm but a squire o' low degree; A baron halds her bridle-rein-- And how culd my luve think o' me?

But I will don the pilgrim's weeds, And boune me till the Holy Land, A' for the sake o' my dear luve, To keep unstain'd my heart and hand.

And when this world is gane to wreck, Wi' a' its pride and vanitie, Within the blessed bouris o' heaven, We then may meet--my luve and me.

JAMES MACDONALD.

A respectable writer of lyric poetry, James Macdonald was born in September 1807, in the parish of Fintry, and county of Stirling. His father was employed in the cotton factory of Culcruich. Of unwonted juvenile precocity, he attracted the attention of two paternal uncles, whose circ.u.mstances enabled them to provide him with a liberal education. Acquiring the rudiments of learning at Culcruich, he afterwards studied at the grammar school of Stirling, and proceeded, in 1822, to the university of Glasgow. Intended by his relations for the ministry of the Established Church, he attended the Divinity Hall during three sessions. Preferring secular employment, he now abandoned the study of theology, and occupied himself in educational pursuits. After teaching in several boarding establishments, he became corrector of the press in the printing-office of Messrs Blackie of Glasgow. Having suffered on account of bad health, he was induced to accept the appointment of Free Church schoolmaster at Blairgowrie. His health continuing to decline, he removed to the salubrious village of Catrine, in Ayrshire: he died there on the 27th May 1848. Macdonald was a devoted teacher of Sabbath schools; and his only separate publications are two collections of hymns for their use.

BONNIE AGGIE LANG.

Or ere we part, my heart leaps hie to sing ae bonnie sang, Aboot my ain sweet lady-love, my darling Aggie Lang; It is na that her cheeks are like the blooming damask rose, It is na that her brow is white as stainless Alpine snows, It is na that her locks are black as ony raven's wing, Nor is 't her e'e o' winning glee that mak's me fondly sing.

But, oh! her heart, a bonnie well, that gushes fresh an' free O' maiden love, and happiness, and a' that sweet can be; Though saft the sang o' simmer winds, the warbling o' the stream, The carolling o' joyous birds, the murmur o' a dream, I 'd rather hear a'e gentle word frae Aggie's angel tongue, For weel I ken her heart is mine--the fountain whar it sprung.

Yestreen I met her in a glen about the gloamin' hour; The moon was risen o'er the trees, the dew begemm'd ilk flower, The weary wind was hush'd asleep, an' no a sough cam' nigh, E'en frae the waukrife stream that ran in silver glintin' by; I press'd her milk-white han' in mine--she smiled as angels smile, But ah! frae me her tale o' love this warld manna wile.

I saw the silver light o' heaven fa' on her bonnie brow, An' glitter on the honey-blabs upon her cherry mou'; I saw the lily moonbeams steal the redness o' the rose, An' sleep upon her downy cheek in beautiful repose.

The moon rose high, the stream gaed by, but aye she smiled on me, An' what she wadna breathe in words she tauld it wi' here e'e.

I 've sat within a palace hall amid the grand an' gay, I 've listen'd to the carnival o' merry birds in May, I 've been in joyous companies, the wale o' mirth an' glee, An' danced in nature's fairy bowers by mountain, lake, and lea; But never has this heart o' mine career'd in purer pride, As in that moonlit glen an' bower, wi' Aggie by my side.