What though our blood be tinged with mud, My lord's is simply purer; 'Twill scarce flow sixty years, nor make His seat in heaven surer.

But should the n.o.ble deign to speak, We 'll hail him as a brother, And trace respective pedigrees To Eve, our common mother.

Then why should we despair in spring, Who braved out wintry weather?

Let monarchs rule, while we shall sing, And journey on together.

WILLIAM B. C. RIDDELL.

A youth of remarkable promise, William Brown Clark Riddell, was the youngest son of Mr Henry Scott Riddell.[12] He was born at Flexhouse, near Hawick, Roxburghshire, on the 16th December 1835. In his seventh year he was admitted a pupil in John Watson's Inst.i.tution, Edinburgh, where he remained till 1850, when, procuring a bursary from the governors of Heriot's Hospital, he entered the University of Edinburgh.

During three sessions he prosecuted his studies with extraordinary ardour and success. On the commencement of a fourth session he was seized with an illness which completely prostrated his physical, and occasionally enfeebled his mental, energies. After a period of suffering, patiently borne, he died in his father's cottage, Teviothead, on the 20th July 1856, in his twenty-first year.

Of an intellect singularly precocious, William Riddell, so early as the age of seven, composed in correct and interesting prose, and produced in his eighth year some vigorous poetry. With a highly retentive memory he retained the results of an extended course of reading, begun almost in childhood. Conversant with general history, he was familiar with the various systems of philosophy. To an accurate knowledge of the Latin and Greek cla.s.sics, he added a correct acquaintance with many of the modern languages. He found consolation on his deathbed, by perusing the Scriptures in the original tongues. He died in fervent hope, and with Christian resignation.

FOOTNOTES:

[12] See "Minstrel," vol. iv. p. 1.

LAMENT OF WALLACE.[13]

No more by thy margin, dark Carron, Shall Wallace in solitude, wander, When tranquil the moon shines afar on Thy heart-stirring wildness and grandeur.

For lost are to me Thy beauties for ever, Since fallen in thee Lie the faithful and free, To waken, ah, never!

And I, thus defeated, must suffer My country's reproach; yet, forsaken, A home to me nature may offer Among her green forests of braken.

But home who can find For heart-rending sorrow?

The wound who can bind When thus pierced is the mind By fate's ruthless arrow?

'Tis death that alone ever frees us Of woes too profound to be spoken, And nought but the grave ever eases The pangs of a heart that is broken.

Then, oh! that my blood In Carron's dark water Had mix'd with the flood Of the warriors' shed 'Mid torrents of slaughter.

For woe to the day when desponding I read in thine aspect the story Of those that were slain when defending Their homes and their mountains of glory.

And curst be the guile Of treacherous knavery That throws o'er our isle In its tyranny vile The mantle of slavery.

FOOTNOTES:

[13] Composed in the author's fourteenth year.

OH! WHAT IS IN THIS FLAUNTING TOWN?[14]

Oh! what is in this flaunting town That pleasure can impart, When native hills and native glens Are imaged on the heart, And fancy hears the ceaseless roar Of cataracts sublime, Where I have paused and ponder'd o'er The awful works of time?

What, what is all the city din?

What all the bustling crowd That throngs these ways from morn to night Array'd in trappings proud?

While fancy's eye still sees the scenes Around my mountain home, Oh! what 's to me yon turret high.

And what yon splendid dome?

Ah! what except a mockery vain Of nature free as fair, That dazzles rather than delights The eye that meets its glare?

Then bear me to the heathy hills Where I so loved to stray, There let me rove with footsteps free And sing the rural lay.

FOOTNOTES:

[14] Composed at the age of fifteen.

MARGARET CRAWFORD.

The author of "Rustic Lays," an interesting volume of lyric poetry, Margaret Crawford was born on the 4th February 1833, at Gilmerton, in the parish of Liberton, Mid-Lothian. With limited opportunities of attending school, she was chiefly indebted for her elementary training to occasional instructions communicated by her mother. Her father, an operative gardener, removed in 1842 to Torwoodlee, Roxburghshire. It was while living there, under her parents' roof, that, so early as her thirteenth year, she first essayed to write verses. Through the beneficence of Mrs Meiklam of Torwoodlee, whose husband her father served, she was taught dress-making. She subsequently accepted the situation of nurse-maid at Craignish Castle, Argyllshire. In 1852, her parents removed to the village of Stow, in the upper district of Mid-Lothian. An inmate of their humble cottage, she has for some years been employed as a dress-maker. Her "Rustic Lays" appeared in 1855, in an elegant little volume. Of its contents she thus remarks in the preface: "Many of these pieces were composed by the auth.o.r.ess on the banks of the Gala, whose sweet, soft music, mingling with the melodies of the woodland, has often charmed her into forgetfulness of the rough realities of life. Others were composed at the fireside, in her father's cottage, at the hours of the _gloamin'_, when, after the bustle of the day had ceased, the clouds and cares of the present were chased away by the bright dreams of the past, and the happy hopes of the future, till she found that her musings had twined themselves into numbers, and a.s.sumed the form in which they now appear."

MY NATIVE LAND.

My native land! my native land!

Where liberty shall firmly stand, Where men are brave in heart and hand, In ancient Caledonia!

How dear to me those gurgling rills That wander free amang the hills!

How sweet to me the sang that fills The groves o' Caledonia!

They tell me o' a distant isle Where summer suns for ever smile; But frae my heart they 'll never wile My love for Caledonia!

And what are a' their flowery plains, If fill'd with weeping slav'ry's chains?

Nae foot o' slavery ever stains My native Caledonia!

Though cauld 's the sun that shed's his rays O'er Scotland's bonnie woods and braes, Oh, let me spend my latest days In ancient Caledonia!

My native land! my native land!

Where liberty shall firmly stand, Where men are brave in heart and hand-- True sons of Caledonia!

THE EMIGRANT'S FAREWELL.

Land of my fathers, I leave thee in sadness-- Far from my dear native country I roam; Fondly I cling to the bright scenes of gladness That shone o'er my heart in my dear happy home.

Far from the home of my childhood I wander, Far from the friends I may never meet more; Oft on those visions of bliss I shall ponder-- Visions that memory alone can restore.