I hadna been his wife a week but only four,
When, mournfu' as I sat on the stane at my door,
I saw my Jamie's ghaist, for I couldna think it he
Till he said, "I'm come hame, love, to marry thee!"
Oh, sair sair did we greet, and mickle say of a',
I gied him ae kiss, and bade him gang awa'-
I wish that I were dead, but I'm na like to die,

For, though my heart is broken, I'm but young, wae is me!

I

gang

like a ghaist, and I carena much to spin,

I darena think o' Jamie, for that would be a sin,
But I'll do my best a gude wife to be,
For, oh! Robin Gray, he is kind to me.

Robert Ferguson.

Born 1751

Died 1774.

FERGUSON was the son of the accountant in the British Linen Company's Bank in Edinburgh, and received a University education. His father dying early, Ferguson was left destitute, but after many privations he obtained a clerkship in a law office, which would have supported him; but he had acquired a taste for the low society of the tavern, which quite unfitted him for his duties. At last, prostrated in body and mind, he sunk into a state of insanity, and ended his life in an asylum. He died in 1774. His poetry is chiefly in the Scottish dialect. He wrote some

pieces in English, in which, however, he failed.

BRAID CLAITH.

YE wha are fain to hae your name
Wrote i' the bonny book o' fame,
Let merit nae pretension claim
To laurelled wreath,

But hap ye weel, baith back and wame,
In guid braid claith.

He that some ells o' this may fa',
And slae-black hat on pow like snaw,

Bids bauld to bear the gree awa',
Wi' a' this graith,

When beinly clad wi' shell fu' braw
O' guid braid claith.

Waesucks for him wha has nae feck o't!

For he's a gowk they're sure to geck at;

A chiel that ne'er will be respeckit
While he draws breath,

Till his four quarters are bedeckit
Wi' guid braid claith.

On Sabbath-days the barber spark,
When he has done wi' scrapin' wark,
Wi' siller broachie in his sark,
Gangs trigly, faith!

Or to the Meadows, or the Park,
In guid braid claith.

Weel might ye trow, to see them there,
That they to shave your haffits bare,
Or curl and sleek a pickle hair,

Would be right laith,

When pacin' wi' a gawsy air
In guid braid claith.

If ony mettled stirrah grien
For favour frae a lady's een,
He maunna care for bein' seen
Before he sheath

His body in a scabbard clean
O' guid braid claith.

For, gin he come wi' coat threadbare,
A fig for him she winna care,

But crook her bonny mou fou sair,

And scauld him baith:

Wooers should aye their travel spare,
Without braid claith.

Thomas Chatterton.

{

Born 1752.

Died 1770.

AN English poet, whose precocious genius and untimely fate have gained him great notoriety. He was born at Bristol, his father being sexton of Redcliff Church, where Chatterton professed to have found the manuscripts which he tried to palm off on the public as ancient. His father dying before he was born, Chatterton was educated at a charity school, where he was thought to be a great dunce, but where, at the age of eight, he began to compose verses. At fourteen he was apprenticed to an attorney in Bristol, under whom he cultivated poetry, antiquities, and heraldry, rather than law. Ambitious in the highest degree of literary fame, he at sixteen set himself to obtain a name, and unfortunately, for this purpose, chose to attempt a series of impositions, probably sug

The New Bridge of

gested by the success of Macpherson's "Ossian." Bristol having been completed and opened with great ceremony, Chatterton sent to a newspaper an account of the ceremonies that took place at the opening of the Old Bridge, some hundreds of years before, and which he stated to have been found in some ancient manuscripts. This led to inquiries, which Chatterton met by producing farther copies of MS., some of which he sent to Horace Walpole. He took care never to submit the so called originals to any competent judge. Walpole submitted the MS. to Gray and Mason, who at once pronounced them to be forgeries, and after critics have confirmed the sentence. The compositions published by him are so complete and finished that one is lost in wonder at their being written by a youth of sixteen. He had no assistance, but toiled on in secret and alone. How different had been his fate had he adhered to truth! Chatterton now went to London, and found a precarious living by literary work. His splendid visions of fame and honour were melting away. He then cast off the restraints of religion, and plunged into intemperance, which completed the wreck of body and mind. At last, in absolute want, and goaded by remorse into the deepest despair, he destroyed himself by poison on 25th August 1770, at the early age of seventeen years and nine months.

A HYMN FOR CHRISTMAS DAY.

ALMIGHTY framer of the skies!

O let our pure devotion rise,
Like incense in thy sight!
Wrapt in impenetrable shade
The texture of our souls were made,
Till thy command gave light.

The sun of glory gleamed the ray,
Refined the darkness into day,
And bid the vapours fly:
Impell'd by his eternal love
He left His palaces above
To cheer our gloomy sky.

How shall we celebrate the day,
When God appeared in mortal clay,
The mark of worldly scorn;
When the Archangel's heavenly lays,
Attempted the Redeemer's praise
And hail'd salvation's morn!

A humble form the Godhead wore,
The pains of poverty He bore,

To gaudy pomp

unknown:

Tho' in a human walk He trod

Still was the Man Almighty God
In glory all His own.

Despised, oppress'd, the Godhead bears,
The torments of this vale of tears;
Nor bid His vengeance rise,

He saw the creatures he had made,
Revile His power, His peace invade;
He saw with mercy's eyes.

How shall we celebrate His name,
Who groan'd beneath a life of shame
In all afflictions try'd;

The soul is raptured to conceive
A truth, which being must believe,
The God eternal died.

My soul, exert thy powers, adore,
Upon devotion's plumage soar
To celebrate the day:

The God from whom creation sprung
Shall animate my grateful tongue:
From Him I'll catch the lay!

FROM "THE PROPHECY."

THIS truth of old was sorrow's friend"Times at the worst will surely mend." The difficulty's then to know

How long Oppression's clock can go;
When Britain's sons may cease to sigh,
And hope that their redemption's nigh.
When vile Corruption's brazen face
At council-board shall take her place;
And lords-commissioners resort
To welcome her at Britain's court;
Look up, ye Britons! cease to sigh,
For your redemption draweth nigh.
When civil power shall snore at ease,
While soldiers fire-to keep the peace;
When murders sanctuary find,
And petticoats can Justice blind;
Look up, ye Britons! cease to sigh,
For your redemption draweth nigh.

When tax is laid to save debate
By prudent ministers of state,
And what the people did not give,

Is levied by prerogative;

Look up, ye Britons! cease to sigh,
For your redemption draweth nigh.

When Popish bishops dare to claim
Authority in George's name,
By treason's hand set up in spite
Of George's title, William's right;
Look up, ye Britons! cease to sigh,
For your redemption draweth nigh.
Commerce o'er Bondage will prevail,
Free as the wind that fills her sail.
When she complains of vile restraint,
And Power is deaf to her complaint;
Look up, ye Britons! cease to sigh,
For your redemption draweth nigh.
When at Bute's feet poor Freedom lies,
Marked by the priest for sacrifice,
And doomed a victim for the sins
Of half the outs and all the ins;
Look up, ye Britons! cease to sigh,
For your redemption draweth nigh.

Then is your time to strike the blow,
And let the slaves of Mammon know,
Britain's true sons a bribe can scorn,
And die as free as they were born.
Virtue again shall take her seat,
And your redemption stand complete.

FROM "TRAGEDY OF ELLA."*

The Minstrel's Song.

OH! sing unto my roundelay;

Oh! drop the briny tear with me;

Dance no more at holiday,

Like a running river be ;

My love is dead,

Gone to his death-bed,
All under the willow-tree.

* One of the pretended MSS.