For the sound was a realization

Of a dream: and I felt like one
Who first sees the Alps or the Pyramids,
World-wide, in the setting sun;

First crossing the purple Campagna,
Behold the wondrous dome,

Which a thought of Michael Angelo hung.
In the golden air of Rome.

And all through the summer morning
I felt a joy indeed

To whisper again to myself—

"This is the voice of the Tweed."

Of Melrose, Neidpath, and Dryburgh,
Norham Castle, brown and bare,
The merry sun shining on merry Carlisle,
And the bush aboon Traquair.

I had dreamed,—but more of the river,
That shining mile on mile
Flowed through my imagination,
As through Egypt flows the Nile.

Was it absolute truth, or dreaming,

Which all the wakeful disowns,

That I heard something more in the stream as it ran Than water breaking on stones ?

Now the hoofs of a flying mosstrooper,
Now a bloodhound bay half caught,
The distant sound of a hunting horn,
The burr of Walter Scott.

Who knows? but of this I am certain,
That but for the ballads and wails

That make passionate dead things, stocks and stones;
Make piteous woods and dales;

TO MR. JAMES HODGE.

The Tweed were as poor as the Amazon,
That for all the years it has rolled,

Can tell but how fair was the morning red,
How sweet the evening gold.

ALEX. SMITH.

167

TO MR. JAMES HODGE, FARMER, ARTHURSHEIL, LIBERTON.

WITH A MUCKLE CHAIR.

WHEN last I was at Arthursheil
And saw your household ware,
I saw a thing ye wanted much-
A roomy muckle chair.

As

ye hae got anither tack,
And dinna need to flit,

As ye hae travelled lang enough
'Tis now your time to sit.

I haena mony gifts to gie,

My gang's been rather bare,

But never mind, amang my gudes
I hae a muckle chair.

And now for auld acquaintance sake,

Our friendship to renew,

I hae anither for mysel',

I'll gie this chair to you.

When Tintoc tap puts on his cap,
Foreboding coming storms,

And murky clouds and hailstones blasts
December war performs,

Ye'll sit and hear the roaring blast

Sough o'er the forest bare,

While snugly at your chimney lug

Ye'll fill your muckle chair.

On Sabbath nichts, as in auld time,
Wi' a' the family there,

The questions ye'll put round and round
Out frae the muckle chair.

Youths think thae are a' sae clever noo,
And fu' o' wit and lair,
Though ignorant o' mony truths
Taught frae the muckle chair.

Improve the short remaining time
That you and I may dree,

It canna be that very lang
Till we be called to dee;
Instead o' kind and loving friends
We'll occupy our lairs,
Another race is now come up
To fill our muckle chairs.

But Jamie, lad, we'll no despond
Though to the grave we go,
We have a certain confidence

That death's a vanquished foe;
And though our case seem lonely now,
It's no without remeid,

The time is fixed, to us unknown,
The grave shall yield the deid.

We'll mount into a higher sphere,
And join the assembled throng,
Wi' harps of gold and waving palms
We'll swell the heavenly song.
Think not, O man, our life is vain,
With prospects such as these,

While as eternity shall roll

We'll sing our Maker's praise.

The lower tribes, who now like us
Partake a Father's care,

Their little all of life when o'er

No blessedness they share.

LOYAL PETER.

To man alone this hope is lent
Amid his griefs and fears,
He shall a reaping time enjoy,
Though he has sown in tears.

JAMES GRAHAM, CARLUKE.

169

James Graham was a good specimen of the Scottish workman of the old school, and his friend, James Hodge, another. They were both able, intelligent, well-informed and well-conducted men; none, I believe, superior in their position. Mr. Graham died at the age of 84, and for the last 16 years of his life had a new New Year's Hymn published in the Hamilton Advertiser, expressive of grateful thanks to the Giver of all good. His death was sudden. He gave several lectures to the young men of Carluke on several interesting and important subjects.

LOYAL PETER.

From the GLASGOW HERALD.

Very many in Glasgow and elsewhere who could not appreciate the genius of the late Professor Rankine, one of the most eminent physicists, mathematicians, and engineers of whom his country could boast, knew him as what is called "a social giant." He was fresh, humorous, and innocent as a child; he was kindly in disposition, so charitable in heart, so sympathetic, so affectionately conservative of all that was lovable in old fashioned ways and things, that he was a universal favourite. His songs are only 19 in number, and some of them are not remarkable. It may be from professional sympathies, but we find few in the volume better than "Loyal Peter," which brings back the memory of dear old Peter Mackenzie of the Glasgow Reformer's Gazette. The following verses are both true to their subject, and a fair specimen of Rankine's power.

OUR Peter is a writer bauld,

His style is never muddy, O,

At jobs and quacks he weel can scauld,
His face is round and ruddy, O.

His shape is portly, middle size,

He's sturdy in his walkin', O;

The sparklin' o' his wits surprise,
It's fun to hear him talkin', O.

CHORUS-Come Rottenrow and Gallowgate,

Goosedubs and Briggate smeeky, O,
And join in praise o' loyal Pate
Wi' Candleriggs sae reeky, O.

Some quacks sell fusionless peasemeal,
Pretend it's Revelenta, O,

And brag o' makin' sick folk weel
In advertisements plenty, O;
A' crammed wi' lees frae en' to en',
And balderdash sae weary, O,
When Peter he whips oot his pen
And dings them tapselteerie, O.
Come Rottenrow, &c.

Some knaves-puir simple folk to rob,
Get up a scheme called Diddlesex,
But Peter he scents out the job,

And dings it a' to fiddlesticks.
Our West-end Park will flourish green
When summer nichts are shorter, 0,
Where, but for Peter, would ha'e been
A park o' bricks and mortar, O.
Come Rottenrow, &c.

Ye rogues o' low and high degree,
Scamp off wi' fear and quakin', O,
If Peter chance your tricks to see,

It's then ye'll get a paiken, O.
Ilk honest man and bonnie lass,

Come brew the toddy sweeter, O,
And drink wi' me a bumper glass
To the health o' loyal Peter, O.
Come Rottenrow, &c.

THE CONTRAST.

Written under Windsor Terrace, 17th February, 1820, on the death of George III, after a reign of 60 years.

I SAW him last on this terrace proud,

Walking in health and gladness;

Begirt with his court, and all in the crowd
Not a single look of sadness.