"Na, na," quo' the pawky auld wife; "I

trow

You'll no fash your head wi' a youthfu' gilly,

As wild and skeigh as a muirland filly; Black Madge is far better and fitter for you."

He hem'd and he haw'd, and he drew in his mouth,

And he squeezed his blue bonnet his twa hands between,

For a wooer that comes when the sun's i' the south,

Is mair landward than wooers that come at e'en.

"Black Madge is sae carefu'"-"What's that to me?"

"She's sober and eident, has sense in her noddle

She's douce and respeckit." "I carena a bodle;

Love winna be guided, and fancy's free." Madge toss'd back her head wi' a saucy slight,

And Nanny, loud laughing, ran out to the green;

For a wooer that comes when the sun

shines bright

Is no like a wooer that comes at e'en.

Then awa flung the laird, and loud mutter'd he,

"A' the daughters of Eve, between

Orkney and Tweed, O!

Black or fair, young or auld, dame or damsel, or widow,

May gang in their pride to the de'il for me!"

But the auld gudewife, and her mays sae tight,

Cared little for a' his stour banning, I

ween ;

light

Is no like a wooer that comes at e'en.

And she was the torment, the plague o'

his life;

She lays sae about her, and maks sic a din,

We met at the fair, and we met at the kirk;

mirk;

And the sound o' her voice and the blinks o' her e'en,

The cheerin' and life of my bosom hae been.

Leaves frae the tree at Martinmas

flee,

And poverty parts sweet company.

At bridal and infare I've braced me wi' pride,

The broose I hae won and a kiss o' the bride;

And loud was the laughter good fellows among,

As I uttered my banter or chorus'd my song.

Dowie to dree are jestin' and glee,
When poverty spoils guid com-

pany.

Wherever I gaed, kindly lasses looked sweet,

And mithers and aunties were unco discreet;

While kebbuck and bicker were set on the board;

But now they pass by me, and never a word.

Sae let it be, for the worldly and slee

Wi' poverty keep nae company.

But the hope o' my love is a cure for its smart,

And the spae-wife has tauld me to keep up my heart;

crost,

Woe's me and can it then be

That poverty parts sic company?

lost,

Tho' cruelly we may ilka day see How poverty parts dear company.

THE subject of Grahame's best known poem, "The Sabbath," is one that has been held in peculiar veneration in Scotland. There can be little doubt that to this cause, as much as to its poetical merits, it owed a great part of the esteem in which it was long held. It is doubtful if it is much read in Scotland now, even by those who still cling to the ascetic observance of the Sabbath; indeed, its conception of the subject is far too poetical and liberal to suit the taste of the advocates of a rigid enforcement of extreme views of Sabbath observance; and the poet himself, though a man of serious sentiments, was not a man of narrow sympathies.

James Grahame was born on the 22d April 1765, in the city of Glasgow, where his father was a writer, or solicitor. He was educated at the grammarschool, and afterwards at the Glasgow University.

At the age of nineteen he was apprenticed to his cousin, Mr Lawrence Hill, Writer to the Signet, Edinburgh; and at the termination of his apprenticeship became a member of that body. He became a member of the Faculty of Advocates in 1795. In 1804, he published "The Sabbath" anonymously, taking great precautions to conceal the authorship, and not even letting his wife know, until one day, having left a copy on her table, as if by accident, she became so interested in the poem, that on his coming home she began to

dilate on its merits; and so hearty was her admiration, that he was constrained to admit her into the secret.

The law was not Grahame's profession by choice; and on his father's death, his own health being far from robust, he resolved to enter the Church. With this view he proceeded to London, and in 1809 was ordained by the Bishop of Norwich, and soon after was appointed to the curacy of Shepton Mayne, in Gloucestershire. He resigned this charge in about a year, and returned to Edinburgh, and offered himself for a vacancy in St George's Episcopal Chapel, but was unsuccessful. He next obtained the curacy of Sedgefield, in Durham, where he was favoured by the bishop; but his health having given way, he returned to Edinburgh for medical advice. His illness increased, however; and wishing once more to visit Glasgow, his native city, he left Edinburgh to proceed thither, but died on the journey at Whitehall, the residence of his brother, on the 14th September 1811.

Besides the "Sabbath," Grahame wrote "Mary Queen of Scotland,” a drama, published in 1801; “Biblical Pictures," and "The Birds of Scotland” (1806) and British Georgics (1809), all of them containing fragments of poetic beauty, and evincing minute and correct powers of observation, but on the whole too serious and monotonous to make them generally readable or interesting.

Grahame wrote nothing peculiarlyScotch in manner; but few poets have confined themselves more closely to their native country in the choice of their subjects, or evinced, by their lingering fondness over its features, greater love for it than he did; and possibly, while his poetry is becoming less known at home, it possesses attractions for the expatriated "Scot abroad," through its being thus saturated with the recollections of the land to whose rigorous clime and sterile features "distance lends enchantment."

THE SABBATH.

[Specimen.]

How still the morning of the hallowed day: Mute is the voice of rural labour hushed, The ploughboy's whistle, and the milk

maid's song.

ground

breeze.

Sounds the most faint attact the ear,-the hum

Of early bee, the trickling of the dew, The distant bleating midway up the hill. Calmness sits throned on yon unmoving cloud.

To him who wanders o'er the upland leas, The blackbird's note comes mellower from

the dale;

And sweeter from the sky the gladsome lark

Warbles his heaven-tuned song; the lulling brook

hedge or tree;

But on this day, embosomed in his home, He shares the frugal meal with those he loves;

With those he loves he shares the heartfelt joy

Of giving thanks to God,-not thanks of form,

A word and a grimace, but reverently, With covered face and upward earnest

eye.

Hail, Sabbath! thee I hail, the poor man's day :

smoke