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1814-1837.

LIKE Michael Bruce, Robert Nicoll | poems under the title of Poems and was endowed with literary abilities Lyrics. He now gave up his library, which he lacked physical powers to enable him to bring to maturity. His zeal and enthusiasm may be said to have consumed him; and with his early death raised his fame, as by a wave of friendly sympathy, beyond what anything he has written will maintain. It has been said that some of his songs have obtained an equal popularity with the best of Burns's. This can hardly be true in any sense; but if it is implied that their merits any way approach the best of Burns's, nothing could be more unjust to Nicoll's fame, or stronger evidence of the critic's want of judgment in such matters than the suggestion of such a comparison.

He was born at Tullybeltane, Perthshire, on January 7th, 1814. His father was a farmer, but was unsuccessful, and Robert's early education was obtained from his mother, a woman of superior intelligence, and was completed at the parish school. His literary aspirations were very early manifested; and while serving an apprenticeship as a grocer in Perth, he devoted his leisure to study and reading. In 1833, he forwarded a tale to Johnstone's Magazine, which led to his making a visit to Edinburgh, and being introduced to several literary gentlemen who befriended him. In 1834, he started a circulating library in Dundee, and interested himself in local politics as an extreme liberal. In 1835, he published a collection of his (12)

and intended trying his fortune in London; but after remaining some time in Edinburgh, he was appointed editor of the Leeds Times, a Radical newspaper. His zeal for the success of the paper, and the excitement of local politics, soon broke his health, and after a short sojourn at Knaresborough, he came back to Edinburgh, and died at Trinity in his twenty-fourth year. He was buried in North Leith Churchyard, where a memorial stone has recently been placed over his remains. A memoir of him has been written by Mr Smiles, and a new edition of his poems is (1877) just published.

THE BONNIE ROWAN BUSH.

The bonnie rowan bush
In yon lane glen-
Where the burnie clear doth gush
In yon lane glen;
My head is white and auld,

An' my bluid is thin an' cauld—
But I lo'e the bonnie rowan bush
In yon lane glen.

My Jeanie first I met

In yon lane glen—
When the grass wi' dew was wet,
In yon lane glen ;

The moon was shinin' sweet,

An' our hearts wi' love did beatBy the bonnie, bonnie rowan bush In yon lane glen.

3 B

Oh! she promised to be mine

In yon lane glen ;

Her heart she did resign

In yon lane glen :

An' mony a happy day

Did o'er us pass away,

Beside the bonnie rowan bush
In yon lane glen.

Sax bonnie bairns had we

In yon lane glen

Lads an' lasses young an' spree

In yon lane glen; An' a' blither family

Than ours there cou'dna be, Beside the bonnie rowan bush In yon lane glen.

Now my auld wife's gane awa'

Frae yon lane glen ; An' though simmer sweet doth fa' On yon lane glen,

To me its beauty's gane,

For alake! I sit alane, Beside the bonnie rowan bush In yon lane glen.

JANET MACBEAN.

Janet Macbean a public keeps,

An' a merry auld wife is she; An' she sells her yill wi' a jaunty air That wad please your heart to see.

Her drink's o' the best-she's hearty aye, An' her house is neat an' cleanThere's no an auld wife in the public line Can match wi' Janet Macbean.

She has aye a curtsey for the laird

When he comes to drink his can,
An' a laugh for the farmer an' his wife,
An' a joke for the farmer's man.
She toddles but, an' she toddles ben,
Like ony wee bit quean-

There's no an' auld wife in the public line
Can match wi' Janet Macbean.

The beggar wives gang a' to her,

An' she sairs them wi' bread an' cheese,

Her bread in bannocks an' cheese in whangs

Wi' a blythe gudewill she gi'es. Vow, the kintra-side will miss her sair

When she's laid aneath the greenThere's no an auld wife in the public line Can match wi' Janet Macbean.

Amang alehouse wives she rules the roast;
For upo' the Sabbath days

She puts on her weel hain'd tartan plaid
An' the rest o' her Sabbath claes,
An' she sits, nae less! in the minister's
seat;

Ilk psalm she lilts, I ween-
There's no an auld wife in the public line
Can match wi' Janet Macbean.

devoted his leisure to study while weaving, he made a successful teacher, and in 1816 removed to Paisley in the same capacity. Here he became involved in the political agitations of the time; and being disgusted at the aspect of affairs at home, emigrated to the United States, where at first he taught a school. Having studied at Princeton College, he was elected minister of the Presbyterian Church of Salem; and in 1835, was appointed to the chair of Ecclesiastical History in a theological seminary. We have no further trace of him.

O'ER THE MIST-SHROUDED

CLIFFS.

O'er the mist-shrouded cliffs of the gray mountain straying,

Where the wild winds of winter incessantly rave;

What woes wring my heart, while intently surveying

The storm's gloomy path on the breast of the wave!

Ye foam-crested billows, allow me to wail, Ere ye toss me afar from my loved native shore;

Where the flower which bloom'd sweetest in Colia's green vale,

The pride of my bosom, my Mary's no more !

No more by the banks of the streamlet we'll wander,

And smile at the moon's rimpled face in the wave;

No more shall my arms cling with fondness around her,

For the dew-drops of morning fall cold on her grave.

No more shall the soft thrill of love warm my breast,

I haste with the storm to a far-distant shore,

Where, unknown, unlamented, my ashes shall rest,

And joy shall revisit my bosom no more.

THOMAS LYLE.

1792-1859.

"KELVIN GROVE" and the air to which it is sung harmonize so well, that the latter is now known by the title of the song-the old words to which it was sung having entirely faded from popular remembrance. Thomas Lyle, the writer of the lyric,-beautiful apart from the air, was a native of Paisley, and studied at Glasgow University. He practised as a surgeon in Glasgow for some time, and afterwards at Airth, in Stirlingshire, where he remained till 1853. "Kelvin Grove" first appeared in The Harp of Renfrewshire, where it

was attributed to John Sim, but Mr Lyle's claim to its authorship was admitted by Motherwell, the editor of that collection.

Lyle was a collector of old national airs and songs, and published, in 1827, a volume of Ancient Ballads and Songs, chiefly from Tradition and Manuscript, and to this he contributed some songs of his own composition. It also contains "Miscellaneous Poems by Sir William Mure, Knight of Rowallan." In 1853 he returned to Glasgow, and here he died in 1859.

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As the smile of fortune's thine, bonnie To his memory shed a tear, bonnie lassie, lassie, O,

O.

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EXCEPT for "Jeannie Morrison," | and elegant sentimental poems want that Motherwell would almost have been forgotten as a poet; and yet few writers gave evidence of possessing the divine faculty earlier, or displayed greater taste and grace in the art of poetic composition. His finished, vigorous,

definite grasp on human interest that makes even rough poetry impressive. His highly cultivated and natural literary abilities, fitted him better for excelling as an editor, and it is in this capacity that he has been most successful.

KATE DALRYMPLE.

Neglected was she by baith gentle and simple,

[We had to use a street version of A blank in the world seemed Kate Dal

this capital and not unfamiliar song,
which we find in no collection that we
have searched. It being anonymous,
and having many imperfections-the
evident result of careless printing-we
have taken the liberty of removing some
of its worst blemishes, with every regard
for its characteristic raciness.]

In a wee cot house by the side of a muir
Where peesweeps, plovers, and whaups
cry dreary,
[year,
There lived an auld maid for mony a lang
And naebody cared to ca' her his deary.
A lonely lass was Kate Dalrymple,
A thrifty quean was Kate Dalrymple,
Nae music except the burnie's sad wimple,
Was heard 'round the dwelling o' Kate
Dalrymple.
[grim,

Her face had a smack o' the grusome and
Which did frae the fash of a' wooers de-

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rymple.

But mony are the ups and the downs o' life, And the dice box o' fate turned tapsalteerie,

Kate fell heiress to a rich friend's estate,

And now for wooers she has nae cause to weary:

For the squire came a wooing to Kate
Dalrymple,

rymple.

The priest scraping, booing, came to Kate
Dalrymple,
[dimple,
On each lover's face sported love's smiling
And she's nae mair Kate but Miss Dal-
[wheel,
Her auld cutty stool that she used at her
Is flung to ae side for her sofa sae gaudy,
Now she's arrayed in her silks and brocade,
And brags o' her muffs and her ruffs wi'
my lady.

But still an unco fash to Kate Dalrymple,
Was dress and party clash to Kate Dal-
rymple,
[simple,

She thought that a marrow in life mair
Wad far better match wi' Kate Dalrymple,
And aften she thought as she sat by her-

sel'

A wiggle in her walk had Kate Dalrymple,
A snivel in her talk had Kate Dalrymple, She'd wed Willie Speediespool the sarken

And mony a cornelian and cairngorum

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weaver,

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