An' though our Crummy's aften roos'd, The milk nor scone he doughtna pree; But glowr'd, as gin the awsome hour

Drew near to close his yirthly woe; Like some auld aik, before the storm Has laid its ancient honours low.

Tell me, auld neiber, where ye wan
That rusty blade an' honest scar?
I trow you've been on mony a field,
Amid the horrid din o' war?
He couldna speak-a deadly smile

Play'd on his looks serenely dour!
An' ere we wist, the vet'ran auld,
A lifeless corse lay on the floor!

THE HILLS O' GALLOWA'. Amang the birks, sae blythe an' gay,

I met my Julia hameward gaun; The linties chantit on the spray,

The lammies loupit on the lawn; On ilka swaird the hay was mawn,

The braes wi' gowans buskit bra'; An' ev'ning's plaid o' gray was thrawn Out-owre the hills o' Gallowa'.

Wi' music wild the woodlands rang,
An' fragrance wing'd alang the lea,
As down we sat the flowers amang,
Upon the banks o' stately Dee.
My Julia's arms encircled me,

An' saftly slade the hours awa',
Till dawning coost a glimmerin' e'e
Upon the hills o' Gallowa'.

It isna owsen, sheep, and kye,
It isna gowd, it isna gear,
This lifted e'e wad hae, quoth I,

The warld's drumlie gloom to cheer; But gie to me my Julia dear,

Ye powers wha row this yirthen ba', An' oh, sae blythe through life I'll steer Amang the hills o' Gallowa'.

Whan gloamin' danders up the hill,

An' our gudeman ca's hame the yowes, Wi' her I'll trace the mossy rill

That through the muir meand'ring rowes; Or, tint amang the scroggie knowes,

My birken pipe I'll sweetly blaw, An' sing the streams, the straths, and howes, The hills and dales o' Gallowa'.

An' whan auld Scotland's heathy hills, Her rural nymphs an' jovial swains,

Her flowery wilds an' wimpling rills,

Awake nae mair my canty strains; Where friendship dwells an' freedom reigns, Where heather blooms an' muir-cocks craw, Oh, dig my grave, and lay my banes Amang the hills o' Gallowa'.

MARY'S GRAVE.

Ye briery bields, where roses blaw!
Ye flow'ry fells, an' sunny braes!
Whase scroggie bosoms foster'd a'

The pleasures o' my youthfu' days.
Amang your leafy simmer claes,

And blushin' blooms, the zephyr flies,
Syne wings awa', and wanton plays
Around the grave whar Mary lies.

Nae mair your bonnie birken bowers,
Your streamlets fair, and woodlands gay,
Can cheer the weary winged hours

As up the glen I joyless stray:
For a' my hopes ha'e flown away,

And when they reach'd their native skies, Left me, amid the world o' wae,

To weet the grave whar Mary lies.

It is na beauty's fairest bloom,

It is na maiden charms consigned And hurried to an early tomb,

That wrings my heart and clouds my mind; But sparkling wit, and sense refin'd,

And spotless truth without disguise, Make me with sighs enrich the wind That fans the grave whar Mary lies.

THE UNCO GRAVE.

Bonnie Clouden, as ye wander
Hills, an' haughs, an' muirs amang,
Ilka knowe an' green meander,

Learn my sad, my dulefu' sang!
Braes o' breckan, hills o' heather,
Howms whare rows the gowden wave;
Blissful scenes, farewell for ever!
I maun seek an unco grave.

Sair I pled, though fate, unfriendly,
Stang'd my heart wi' waes and dules,
That some faithfu' hand might kindly
Lay't amang my native mools.
Cronies dear, wha late an' early
Aye to soothe my sorrows strave,

rapidly passed through several editions, the third, through the instrumentality of Sir Walter Scott and Joanna Baillie, being issued by Archibald Constable of Edinburgh. It made the author well known in Scotland, and obtained for him literary employment, for which he found time while pursuing his vocation of a shoemaker. Lockhart remarks that "it made his name and character known, and thus served him far more essentially; for he wisely continued to cultivate his poetical talents, without neglecting the opportunity thus afforded him through them of pursuing his original calling under better advantages."

Struthers' next poem, which was as favour ably received as its predecessor, was intended| as a sequel to "The Poor Man's Sabbath," and was entitled "The Peasant's Death." This was followed in 1811 by "The Winter," a poem in irregular measure, and in 1814 by a small volume bearing the title of Poems, Moral and Religious. Four years later he published the poem of "The Plough," in the Spenserian stanza. This was succeeded in 1819 by a collection of songs, published in three volumes, with the title of The Harp of Caledonia, to which Miss Baillie, Mrs. Anne Hunter, and others contributed original lyrics. Soon after the appearance of this work he obtained employment as a proof-reader in the printing-office of Khull, Blackie, & Co. During his connection with this establishment he assisted in preparing an edition of Wodrow's History, and produced a History of Scotland from the union to the year 1827, the date of its publication. He was afterwards employed to prepare a third volume, continuing the narrative until after the Disruption, so that it might be a complete history of the Scottish Church; but he died ere it was quite finished.

In the year 1833 he was appointed to the charge of the Stirling's Library in Glasgow, in which situation he remained for fifteen years; and, returning in the sere and yellow leaf of his days to his first love, he resumed his poem entitled "Dychmont," begun in early life, which he completed and published in his sixtythird year. He died suddenly in Glasgow, July 30, 1853. In addition to the works already named, Struthers published, in 1816, a pamphlet on the state of the labouring poor, followed some years later by a brochure in favour of National Church Establishments; contributed memoirs of James Hogg, minister of Carnock, and Principal Robertson to the Christian Inquirer, and prepared sketches of deceased worthies for Chambers' Biographical Dictionary of Eminent Scotsmen. His poetical works, which appeared at various dates, were republished in 1850, in two volumes, accompanied by an interesting autobiographical sketch. The Scottish Guardian, alluding to Struthers and his writings, says: "They are good works, and the works of a good man, who deserves well of his country, and whose name will not soon pass into oblivion." Another authority, the renowned editor of the Quarterly Review, in his memoir of Sir Walter, remarks, "It is said that the solitary and meditative generation of cobblers have produced a larger list of murders and other domestic crimes than any other mechanical trade except the butchers; but the sons of Crispin have, to balance their account, a not less disproportionate catalogue of poets: and foremost among these stands the pious author of 'The Poor Man's Sabbath,' one of the very few that have had sense and fortitude to resist the innumerable temptations to which any measure of celebrity exposes persons of their class."

Amidst the winds that blustering, hollow howl, The frosts, that creep cold on the budding spray;

Sheds on his weary soul a cheering rayAnd bids him soar on Hope's angelic wing?

In life's low vale with soul-depressing sway; Say, Muse, what lights the poor man on his way Gives him to drink at cool contentment's spring

sing.

Hail, holy day! of heav'n the certain pledge, And pleasing prelibation here below; 'Tis thine the groans of nature to assuage,

And bind with balmy hand her wounds of woe. Rejoicing in the m rning's ruddy glow, The labouring ox, all wet with pearly dew, The clover'd dale at will traverses slow, While idly gleams upon the distant view, Far o'er the fallow field, the glittering soil-worn plough.

Yea, e'en the simple ass, the daily drudge Of yonder wandering, houseless, homeless train, The thistle champs along the common's edge, And lightsome ease obliterates all his pain. But chief, in freedom from the weary wain Exulting, roams at large the bounding steed; Light floats upon the breeze his flowing mane; He snorts, he paws, he skims the flow'ry meadThe Sabbath day to him a day of joy indeed.

His milky charge there too, the farmer feeds,
While yet his family lie reclin'd in sleep;
This, on the part of labour, mercy pleads——
Labour, that still an early hour must keep-
And he that would to meditation deep,
Or exercise devout, his mind apply,

Nor blooms of hope, nor fruits of faith will reap,
If drowsy slumbers hang upon his eye,

And nature unrefresh'd pour forth the languid sigh.

And down the vale where yet unmelted lie
The morning clouds around his humble home,
With careless step, in musing transport high,
Behold the week-worn cottar slowly roam.
On every hand the fragrant flow'rets bloom,
A hymn of joy in every thicket rings-
Earth breathes a grateful off'ring of perfume;
While blithe the lark extends his dewy wings,
And soaring up to heaven, a Heaven-taught son-
net sings.

All this he ponders o'er with silent joy-
With gratitude and love his heart o'erflows,
Yet grieved to think that still with base alloy
Is mix'd the tribute which his soul bestows.
In rev'rence deep his head he humbly bows,
And lifts to Heav'n a supplicating eye;

Great are his wants, but words their utterance lose;

Dumb on his to gue his mighty cravings lie, And burden'd sore, his soul pours forth a broken sigh.

And sighs are language in th' all-gracious ear Of Him who sits supreme on Mercy's throne, Who kindly marks the penitential tear, And of the broken sp'rit the faintest groan. The meltings of the heart will he disown? The heart enraptured with his goodness? NoA gracious answer to his sigh comes down, Warm on his soul the streams of mercy flow, And kindling in his breast, Heav'ns holy ardours glow.

Now in his love his friends and family share,
Before his God he spreads their every case,
Implores that he would make them all his care,
And fold them ever in his warm embrace;
But chiefly for his little infant race,

As yet unpractised in the world's vile ways,
That, by the influence of his special grace,
Conducted through life's dark and troubl'd

maze,

Their last end may be peace, their whole lives speak his praise.

Nor end his fervours here-his native land,
Tho' owning not a foot-breadth of her soil,
He prays that in the hollow of God's hand
She still may rest, the lov'd, the lovely isle;
That in her valleys peace may ever smile,
And jubilant the song her mountains raise,
While woods and streams the chorus join the
while,

With active man, to swell the notes of praise, Till yonder orbs surcease t' admeasure nights and days.

Untutor'd he, with philosophic ken,

Round the wide limits of the world to sweep, To mark the manners strange of ruder men, And, sage-like, tell what mystic rites they keep: But he has heard that o'er the pathless deep, Beneath th' unbroken shade of forests brown, The naked tribes, save that they wildly leap, Like moody madness to the changing moon, No blissful day of rest, no sacred service own.

That blind, at superstition's awful shrine,
Others laid prostrate, drench'd in human gor,
The direful fiends of hell, supposed divine,
With fear and awful reverence adore;
While lying flamens, boasting wizard lore,
In vain essay to read their future doom-
The rite abhorr'd, the harsh rhyme mutter'd
o'er,

Cheer not the lonely dwelling of the tomb, Which trembling doubt invests with horror's

deepest gloom.

And with th' assembly great of the first-born,
Whose names are writ in heaven, in spirit join'd,
He prays that God upon their case forlorn
Would cast a healing lock in mercy kind;
And call his gracious covenant to mind,
His promise from the times of old given forth,
That in the bonds of amity combin'd,
Through Him divine, the woman's wond'rous
birth,

Men jubilant shall join, from th' utmost ends of earth.

But from his little cot a curling cloud

Of smoke ascending, homeward tempts his way,
To bless his family, and to serve his God
In all the sacred duties of the day.

As fanciful let none despise the lay-
Sweet peace in all her forms Devotion brings;
But doubly sweet her animating ray,
When, round the social hearth, Heaven's an-
them rings,

And Hope exulting smiles, and Faith expands her wings.

The soothing satisfaction who can tell,

Th' emotions dear that warm the father's heart, As, rising sweet, these strains of Zion swell Around his little ring, devoid of art? Perhaps how God beneath oppression's smart Beholds the poor, and listens to their sighs; Or, how in wilds and deserts far apart, To glad the thirsty soul that fainting lies, He bids the flowerets spring, and bubbling streams arise.

Or what, when read,-while all attentive hear,
Is some marked portion of the sacred word;
Perhaps in Sinai's thirsty desert drear,
Or Arnon's brooks, the doing of the Lord.
Or how, when Persecution's cruel sword
Awoke in fury, burning to devour,

By Cherith's brook conceal'd, the prophet's board,

The ravens, mission'd by Almighty power, With bread and flesh supplied at morn and evening's hour.

Or, when amidst the drought-consumed soil, Their empty urns the fainting brooks deplore, How the poor widow's little cruse of oil For many a day supplied the unfailing store; Or how the weeping Bard the briny shower Poured for the children of his people slain, While low on earth, with ashes covered o'er, Zion for help stretched forth her hands in vain, A hissing and a scorn to spiteful foes profane.

Perhaps, when this green earth in morning prime,

To run its destin'd course had scarce begun,
How righteous Abel fell before his time,
By meekness, faith, and charity undone-
And how the haughty, overbearing one,
Though pitying earth the ruthless deed de-
plor'd,

Harden'd in pride and hate, in daring tone, Braving the anger of th' Omniscient Lord, Was driven out from man a vagabond abhorr'd.

Whom, when the day of slighted patience clos'd, And wrath's dark night arose in starless gloom, A miracle of mercy interpos'd

To save amidst the all-o'erwhelming doom. And how, when on a lost world's closing tomb, Its relic and its orphan poor he stood, His grateful offering's savoury perfume, Through precious faith in the Messiah's blood, Rose with acceptance meet before the throne of God.

Who on his weakness turn'd a pitying eye, Resolv'd in such sort never to contend Again with sinful flesh-but wet and dry, In measure meet, with heat and cold to send. And seasons, round the rolling earth to blend Beauty and grandeur in successive rise; And day and night, until th' appointed end Of all within man's visive range that lies, The garniture of earth, the glory of the skies.

And how he bade him love and multiply, And fill the earth, yet fair for him outspread, And rule o'er all that run, creep, swim, or fly; The rightful owner, and the sovereign head. And how, lest in his breast a secret dread Might harbour, and his better thoughts confine, Of wrath remov'd, and reconcilement made, The glorious symbol, dipp'd in dyes divine, Bright on the rising cloud he bade the rainbow shine.