The child that a mother attended and loved,
The mother, that infant's affection that proved,
The husband, that mother and infant that blest,
Each-all are away to their dwelling of rest:

The maid on whose cheek, on whose brow, in whose eye,
Shone beauty and pleasure-her triumphs are by;
And the memory of those that beloved her and praised,
Are alike from the minds of the living erased.

The hand of the king that the sceptre hath borne,
The brow of the priest that the mitre hath worn,
The eye of the sage, and the heart of the brave,
Are hidden and lost in the depths of the grave.

The peasant, whose lot was to sow and to reap;
The herdsman, who climbed with his goats to the steep;
The beggar that wandered in search of his bread,
All have faded away like the grass which we tread.

The saint that enjoyed the communion of heaven,
The sinner that dared to remain unforgiven,
The wise and the foolish, the guilty and just,
Have quietly mingled their bones in the dust.

So the multitude goes-like the flower and the weed
That wither away to let others succeed;

So the multitude comes-even these we behold
To repeat every tale that hath often been told.

For we are the same things that our fathers have been,
We see the same sights that our fathers have seen,
We drink the same stream, we feel the same sun,
And we run the same course that our fathers have run.

The thoughts we are thinking our fathers would think,
The death we are shrinking from they too would shrink,
To the life we are clinging to they too would cling,
But it speeds from the earth like a bird on the wing!

KATIE GLASGOW.

They loved-but their story we cannot unfold;

87

They scorned-but the heart of the haughty is cold;
They grieved-but no wail from their slumbers may come;
They joyed-but the voice of their gladness is dumb.

For they died-ay, they died! and we things that are now,
Who walk on the turf that lies over their brow,

Who make in their dwellings a transient abode,
Meet the changes they met in their pilgrimage road.

Yea, hope and despondency, pleasure and pain,
Are mingled together like sunshine and rain;

And the smile and the tear, and the song and the dirge,
Still follow each other like surge upon surge.

'Tis the wink of an eye, 'tis the draught of a breath,
From the blossom of health to the paleness of death,
From the gilded saloon to the bier and the shroud—-
O why should the spirit of mortal be proud?

WILLIAM KNOX.

These lines having been found in manuscript among the papers of the late Abraham Lincoln, President of the United States, were published in America as the work of the great Liberator of the American slaves; it is so far creditable to Lincoln's taste that he appreciated them so much as to copy them with his own hand. But there can be no doubt respecting the authorship. They first appeared in 1825, in a volume of lyrics, entitled the "Harp of Zion." Knox was a native of Lilliesleaf, Roxburghshire, where he was educated. He was for some time a farmer, and died at Edinburgh in 1825 at the age of 36. He published several volumes of sacred poetry. Many of his pieces are exquisitely beautiful. It is worthy of notice, that Lincoln admired them so much that he was in the habit of often quoting and reciting them, both in public and private. He made inquiry for the author, and on being informed he was dead, sent a donation of £10 to the poet's father.

KATIE GLASGOW.

O BONNIE Katie Glasgow how are ye fennin' now,
Has fleetin' time nae shadow cast upon your sunny brow,
And is your e'e as sparkling bright, your heart as free o' cares,
As we were a' that happy nicht when I was at Carstairs.

O bonnie Katie Glasgow! ye were handsome, young, and fair, Love danced amang the ringlets o' your rich and glossy hair; And youth and love and beauty, and happy hearts were theirs, Who formed the merry company when I was at Carstairs.

O bonnie Katie Glasgow! I've wandered far and wide, O'er deserts wild, o'er mountains high, o'er ocean's foaming tide,

And joined in luxury's festive scenes where wealth and splendour glares,

But ne'er forgot that happy nicht when I was at Carstairs.

I've seen the Highland maidens bloom, sweet flowers amang the hills,

I've seen the factory beauties stream in hundreds frae the mills, And the ruddy dark-eyed Clydesdale maids at Clydesdale merry fairs,

But ne'er forgot that happy nicht when I was at Carstairs.

I've seen the city ladies shine, the noblest of the land,
So proudly pacing Princes Street in silks and satins grand,
But all the city's beauties, all the pride of Edinbro's squares,
Could ne'er efface that happy nicht when I was at Carstairs.

O bonnie Katie Glasgow! I often mind you still,
Though you have lang forgotten me, forget I never will;
For deeply carved on memory's page, my heart again declares-
I'll ne'er forget that happy nicht when I was at Carstairs.

Katie was a native of Carstairs, and became the wife of a farmer at Dolphinton.

A CRACK OWRE A CHAPPIN IN AMERICA,

WI' JOHN PRENTICE, LATE OF COVINGTON MAINS, BY HEW AINSLIE.

LET'S tell auld tales o' far awa'

While stretchin' out oor legs;

An' though oor drink's no usquebaugh,
"Twill serve to weet our craigs.

A CRACK OWRE A CHAPPIN IN AMERICA.

Wake up, ye spirits of the past
That haunted life's braw morn;
An' if a girnin' ghaist looks in,
We'll lay him wi' a horn.

Ay, let our youngsters kick the mools,
They're geared for life's braw race;
The gowd an' siller's at the dools,
High honours, post an' place.

But stoutest tree e'er stood on lan'
At last comes to the grun',
An' biggest blether e'er was blawn,
What ends it but in win'?

We ken hoo things are handled here,
Howe'er we puff or pech;
So, savin' win' to cool oor kail,
Let's toom anither quaich.

It's richt bee-like to fill the byke,
An' keep things het at hame,
But weary on your niggard drone
That never prees the kame.

Gloomin' at a' things in his grip,
Blin' onward fares Sir Greed,
Nor recks the coof some slippery loof
Will sune skail a' abreed.

It's lang been said what's crossed the craig
Can ne'er be testamented;

An' sages hint that what is tint

Is twice tint when lamented.

But saws o' age an' counsels sage

Are no' aye owre weel ta'en;

So here we'll quat--haud in your cup----
Here's tae ye, Jock, again.

89

Mr. Prentice was the son of Archibald Prentice, farmer in Covington

Mains, with whom Burns spent the night, and was hospitably entertained with a large company of Mr. Prentice's friends, on his first journey to Edinburgh. John succeeded his father as the farmer of Covington Mains, but ultimately went to the United States, where he made the acquaintance of Ainslie.

A PRAYER.

O Thou! who rulest and reignest on high;
Far above yon glorious sun and sky-

Where angels, archangels, and cherubims stand,
All reverently veiled, and await Thy command-
With ransomed millions round that dazzling throne,
Which no mortal eye ever gazed upon-

All in shining robes and with harps of gold,
Rejoicing safe in the heavenly fold.
Great Creator of all! Thy glories we sing,
Immortal! Eternal! Omnipotent King!
O! look not upon us in wrathful frown,
But for Jesus' sake, look in mercy down!

We are wandering in sorrow and darkness here,
With many a doubt, and many a fear,
And temptations and trials on every hand,
While fighting our way to the better land;
For the angels of darkness around us throng,
Numerous and terrible, subtle and strong,
And we are all weakness, all guilt and sin,
Polluted without, and polluted within;
Yet, look not upon us in wrathful frown,
But, for Jesus' sake, look in mercy down!

Our sins, we confess, are in number more
Than the stars of heaven, or the sands on the shore,
For Thy holy precepts were all forgot,

Thy warnings and threatenings remembered not;
'Gainst light and knowledge both we have sinned,
And the blessed Jesus, the sinner's friend;