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' clean-
There'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;

HOO THE LASSIE BRAK THE

BOWL.

[The catastrophe of this poem may not be original, nor the poetry of a high order, yet the characters are drawn with much force and truth, and though not uncommon, have not been previously preserved in verse. We know not if

the author is known, for we have never seen the poem in any collection, and have taken it from a newspaper cutting.]

Whar Neidpath's wa's wi' pride look doon
Upon a guid auld borough toon,
A crankie cratur leev'd langsyne,
Amang the gude auld freen's o' mine-
Amang the sib as sib cou'd be-
But weel-I-wat ye soon sall see
She wasna ae drap's bluid to me.

Ane o' the awfu' cleanin' kind,
That clean folk clean oot o' their mind;
An' aften as we've seen betide,
Clean guid men frae their ain fireside.
A fykie, fashious, yammerin' yaud,
That cou'd the gear fu' steevely haud;
An' ill-set, sour, ill-willy wilk—
She had a face 'twad yearned milk,
Forbye a loud, ill-scraipit tongue
As e'er in harmless heid was hung:
To girn an' growl, to wark an' flyte,
Was aye the ill-spun wisp's delight.
O' heveen, I'm sure that Tibbie's meanin'
Was ae great everlastin' cleanin'.
Frae morn to nicht she ne'er was still-
Her life was like a teugh treadmill;
She just was like an evil speerit,
She ne'er cou'd settle for a minute;
But whan a dud she made, or clootit,
Soon a' the toon wad hear about it.

Whene'er folk cou'dna keep her clues, She heckled them aboot their views; But when their wrath began to boil, She grew real fear't aboot their sowl." 'Twas queer! (but nocht's sae queer as folk),

An' to the workin' she wad yoke
Through perfect spite an' fair ill-natur' ;
An' the deil's buckie o' a cratur'
Was o' the pipe a mortal hater.
John, honest man, had aye to hap,

For peacesake, ower the weeshen stap ;1
But ere the lintel he wad pass,
'Twas-"Man, for gudesake mind the bass:
Tak' care o' this, tak' care o' that;
Haud aff the hearth noo whan it's wat,
Whan ance it's dry, syne tak' a heat;
Tak' care, man, whar ye set your feet!
Fa' to yer parritch, an' beware
Ye let nae jaups fa' on the flare; 2
Weel ower the bicker haud yer snout,
Nor fyle my weel-washed table clout.
To toil, noo, 'deed, I'm no sae able-
Keep yer black dottle aff the table!
Waes me! but ye hae little thocht,
Ye never think hoo sair I'm wrocht,
To hae things richt whan hame ye come-
Confoond ye! smoke it up the lum !

Some men wad hae the mense to say,
'Ye're sair forfeuchen-like 3 the day;
Puir body! od,' I'm sure ye're wearit'-
The like o' that wad gie a body speerit.
But you! whane'er ye've clawed yer coggie,
Ye mak' this hoose a fair killogie.4
In ower the door there's no a steek
But's pushioned wi' yer 'bacca-reek,

1 The washed door-step.

2 Spatters fall on the floor.

3 Look over wrought.

4 The entrance to a kiln.

OUR review of Scottish Poetry properly ends with Robert Nicoll. The anonymous pieces which follow, like those attached to former periods, are placed at the end as a matter of arrange

ment.

Our design has been to give a select, not an exhaustive view of the subject; placing the means of estimating the character and quality, rather than the extent of Scottish poetry, within easy reach of the public. We do not think that a continuation to the present date would present any new features, especially in its more peculiarly Scotch aspects, for, though Scottish poetry will always retain traces of its native character, that of language it may be said to have already ceased to cultivate, except occasionally. The dialect presently spoken in out-of-the-way corners, in debased forms, is unsuitable as a vehicle of the national sentiments, and cannot be expected or desired to hold out long against educational and other influences. But the language in which the noble body of Scottish poetry is embalmed may always be quite well understood by Scotsmen, although its use as a literary medium may be said to have ceased with the productions of such devoted cultivators as James Ballantine, James Smith, and Alexander Maclagan, specimens of whose poetry we append. The future course of the stream of Scottish song is best indicated by Olrig Grange, and the few beautiful remains of Thomas Davidson.

OUR review of Scottish Poetry properly ends with Robert Nicoll. The anonymous pieces which follow, like those attached to former periods, are placed at the end as a matter of arrange

ment.

Our design has been to give a select, not an exhaustive view of the subject; placing the means of estimating the character and quality, rather than the extent of Scottish poetry, within easy reach of the public. We do not think that a continuation to the present date would present any new features, especially in its more peculiarly Scotch aspects, for, though Scottish poetry will always retain traces of its native character, that of language it may be said to have already ceased to cultivate, except occasionally. The dialect presently spoken in out-of-the-way corners, in debased forms, is unsuitable as a vehicle of the national sentiments, and cannot be expected or desired to hold out long against educational and other influences. But the language in which the noble body of Scottish poetry is embalmed may always be quite well understood by Scotsmen, although its use as a literary medium may be said to have ceased with the productions of such devoted cultivators as James Ballantine, James Smith, and Alexander Maclagan, specimens of whose poetry we append. The future course of the stream of Scottish song is best indicated by Olrig Grange, and the few beautiful remains of Thomas Davidson.