glen we bounded like a deer belling in his season, and by half-past seven were in the school-house. We said nothing-not that we were either sullen or sulky; but stern resolution compressed our lips, which opened but to swallow a few small loaves and fishes-and having performed twenty-eight miles, we started again for the Loch. At eleven-for we took our swing easily and steadilyour five flies were on the water. By sunset we had killed twenty dozen -none above a pound-and by far the greater number about a quarter -but the tout-ensemble was imposing—and the weight could not have been short of five stone. We filled both creels, (one used for salmon,) bag, and pillow-slip, and all the poc kets about our person-and at first peep of the evening star went our ways again down the glen towards Dalmally. We reached the schoolae wee short hour ayont the house 66 twal," having been on our legs almost all the four-and-twenty hours, and for eight up to the waist in water-distance walked, fifty-six miles -trouts killed, twenty dozen and odd-and weight carried The similitude is perfect, all but the horns. "At the close of the day, when the hamlet was still, 'Twas long believed by the whole old women of the noisy world that Wordsworth was no poet-and by a part of them that the moon was made of green cheese. But the dwellers in the world that is "silent and divine," all knew that the Bard was from heaven on a mission; and to the eyes of all whose "visual And mortals the sweets of forgetfulness proved," certainly seventy pounds for fourteen miles; and if the tale be not true, may May-day miss Maga. And, now, alas! we could not hobble for our book from the holms of Ashiestiel to Clovenford! "Tempora mutantur, nos et mutamur in illis." "In a deep pool, by happy choice we saw A SNOW WHITE RAM; and in the crystal flood Not that we look much amiss-in our own eyes-yet; and here is a mirror. 'Tis a lown place this,nearly encircled with trees,-and the river winds about so, and parts inlets, that we might almost suppose to such sweet perplexing streamhere is a glass, magical as that in we were on a little island. Aye, which the Italian wizard shewed Lord Surrey his faithful Geraldine. No, 'tis no female form-'tis not the ladye of his love-but Christo pher himself in all his glory-rod in one hand, and crutch in the othercrutch being fitted up as a landing net. Wordsworth, like a true seer, by anWhat a pleasing reflection! ticipation painted the picture : nerve has been purged with rue and euphrasy," he has for ever beautified the "light of common day," rendered the "beauty still more beauteous," and given glimpses" of something far more deeply interfused," which we may see in all its native glory in a higher state of Being. But here comes Iris, with our Book in her bosom. She espies us, and holding it up above "her beau tiful and shining golden head," it seems to our ears as if the kind creature were singing a song. Now, Mary-we knew your name was Mary, the moment we saw you -Mary Riddle-we ken you singsae gie's a sang, my bonnie bit wee winsome lassie-while we are rummaging our Book-But what's the matter? What's the matter? "O sir, you've no been leukin' after the kye-for, mercy me! there's three o' the twa-year-auld Hielan' nowt got ten into the garden. O Sir! you're a bad herd!" Mary Riddle has soon cleared the garden of kye and nowt, and beg ging pardon for "haen' sae far forgotten hersel', as to speak sae rudely to sae kind an auld gentleman,' offers" to do her best at a sang." "She sings"-she says-" to auld tunes, or natural tunes o' her ain like, the maist feck o' Gilfillan's sangs-him that leeves in Leith, and that's reckoned a bonny writer a' owre this part o' the kintra." We are glad to hear from Mary Riddle, that our ingenious friend Gilfillan's songs are so popular among the pastoral dwellers on the banks of the Tweed, the Ettrick, and the Yarrow, and ask for "Mary's Bower." MARY'S BOWer. Set to an original melody by Peter MacLeod, and sung by Mary Riddle, on the Holms of Ashiestiel, to CHRISTOPHER NORTH, April 23, 1833. coosins that dinna leeve in this pairt"-and that you are "as happy as the day is lang"-for that "the puirest creature is aye safe in the haun o' God." "Now you maun gie us another bit sangie-but let it be a cheerfu' lilt." "What say ye, sir, to 'Janet and Me ?'" JANET AN' ME. Tune-" I'd rather hae a piece than a kiss o' my Joe." Sung by ditto-to ditto-at ditto-on ditto. O, wha are sae happy as me an' my Janet? She croons i' the house while I sing at the plough ; As up the lang glen I come wearied, I trow! When I'm at the Beuk she is mending the cleadin', She's darnin' the stockings when I sole the shoon; When I'm i' the stable she's milkin' the kye; Aboon our auld heads we've a decent clay biggin', That keeps out the cauld when the simmer's awa; As thick as dog-lugs, an' as white as the snaw! Yon sow is our ain that plays grumph at the door; Nae doubt, we have haen our ain sorrows and troubles, Contentment, be thankit, has aye been our share! Whilk ne'er shall be drawn till our king has a fae; To laugh when we're happy, or grieve when we're wae. The laird may hae gowd mair than schoolmen can reckon, But are they mair happy than Janet an' me? nius Allan Ramsay-Robert Fergusson time, to how many gifted sons of ge-Robert Burns-James Hogg-Allan Cunninghame-Robert Tannahill-Robert Gilfillan-when did the air of merry England ring with the warblings of such sky-larks as these? Born were they all" in huts where poor men lie”—and then in the olden "Did Nature give her music pipes, And her sweet trumping strains?" Charles Lamb ought really not to abuse Scotland in the pleasant way he so often does in the sylvan shades of Enfield; for Scotland loves he learns lessons of humanity, even from the mild malice of Elia, and breathes a blessing on him and his household in their Bower of Rest. Why-Mary-we do sometimes attempt such a thing-and we cannot refuse thee-so here goes Gilfillan's "Jean Pringle." PITY THE LADS THAT ARE FREE. Tune.-" Ihae a wife o' my ain." Sung on Tweedside by Christopher North to Mary Riddle, April 23, 1833. Pity the lads that are free, Pity the chiels that are single; For gude sake! tak pity on me, I'm teased night an' day wi' Jean Pringle. My heart's my ain an' I'm cheery, Mary Riddle-you shall have sent to you from Edinburgh-bound in red -with a green silk ribbon in it-to mark the chapter where you left off -a Bible. We know you have one of your own-but 'tis much wornthe brown binding is tatter'd and worm-eaten the pages very yellow -and some words at many places so indistinct that even your eyes cannot easily make them out in the gloaming, or by the flickering peat-light. We need not bid you read the Bible often now-but continue to do so when you grow up-and should days pass by without your looking into it, remember the old man whose name you will see written along with your own on one of the blank pages, and who will then be in his grave. Think you hear his voice saying, "Mary Riddle, have you forgotten our advice below the trees on Tweedside?" Nay-Mary-we wished not to set you aweeping; and, along withthe Bible, will come some yards of dimity for a gown for the braes, and some of a better sort, plain, but pretty, for your dress on the Sabbath. And perhaps a trifle or two beside -such as some pink ribbons, and a silk handkerchief or two-which, with care, may last till you are a maiden with a sweetheart. But part we must not, till you even give us another song. So wipe your eyesaye, the sleeve of your gown will do -and as there is nothing like being happy-hear the birds-let's have again something gay of Gilfillan'ssay "Young Willie, the Ploughman." YOUNG WILLIE, THE PLOUGHMAN. Sung by Mary Riddle, on Tweedside, to Christopher North, April 23, 1833. Young Willie, the ploughman, has nae land nor siller Tak tent an' ye'se hear what the laddie does sing :- Wad need finer words than I've gatten to tell! "I've courted ye lang-do ye hear what I'm telling?— At the warst, only ae shilling, Jenny, we'se tine. Nor happiness dwall whar the coffers are fu'; That want ne'er sal meet us, nor mis'ry pursue. |