Tiny feet and sunny faces, young hearts yet full of glee, Have danced in boist'rous merriment around the Westport

tree.

Where are those merry children now

and wide,

? Some, scattered far

Have left for lands across the sea their native vale of Clyde ; Yet still in memory they will trace the merry days of yore, And grieve to hear the Westport tree is standing now no

more.

LANARK.

WANT O' SILLER.

Oh, the weary want o' siller!
Oh, the waefu' want o' siller!
It maks na what be in your pow,
If your pouch be bare o' siller.

It's waur than a' the woes o' life,

And sair benumb a bodie's noddle,
For wit and lair without the pelf
Is never reckoned worth a bodle.

Oh, the weary want o' siller, &c.

I've written books, baith prose an' verse,
With mony a roosin' dedication;
But nane wad tent the puir baugh chiel—
There's nought for me but black starvation.
Oh, the weary want o' siller, &c.

I've been in love out owre the lugs,
As mony a chiel has been afore me,
But 'cause my mailen was sae sma',
saucy limmers did abhor me.

The

Oh, the weary want o' siller, &c.

THE DEATH OF DR. LIVINGSTONE.

An' oh, but my ain shanks be sma',
My nose is sharp as ony filler;
Grim death will soon hae me awa';
Ohone! ohone! the want o' siller!

Oh, the weary want o' siller, &c.

ANON.

THE DEATH OF DR. LIVINGSTONE.

“BUILD me a hut to die in,

"Tis all I ask of man;

A little place to lie in,

And end life's weary span.
Thence shall my weary spirit
Fly up to Jesus' breast,
And through His grace inherit
An everlasting rest!"

They built a hut, and laid him
Upon his lowly bed;

Then tenderly did aid him,

Till the weary spirit fled,
His precious dust-they bore it

O'er mountain, stream, and plain;

And yon ship did restore it
To Britain's coast again.

Put on thy mourning, London,
And take with tears the trust;

From sunrise until sundown,

Gaze on his glorious dust:
Then open wide the Abbey,
Reserved for famous men-
The warrior and the rabbi,

Made great by sword and pen.

217

"Prepare the traveller's mansion,"
I hear them say in heaven;
"Let it have a wide expansion,
No stinted space be given.
Small was the Afric shieling

In which he breathed his last;
But splendid be his dwelling,
When all his toils are past."

I see him 'mid the glory,

With his father and his wife,
Recounting all the story
Of his eventful life.

And, hark! there come faint traces
Of the great man's heavenly words:
What are they? "Afric's races

Shall soon become the Lord's."

Recited by the Rev. Fergus Ferguson at the soiree of Hamiltonians at Glasgow on 12th February, 1875. On the eve of one of his great battles Nelson said, Now for a peerage or Westminster Abbey.' It is certainly a notable fact, that a Clydesdale cotton-spinner should have a grave in that splendid mausoleum; and we have no hesitation in saying that few there, if any, were better entitled to such an honour.

WISHAW GILL.

'MANG scenes of grandeur tho' I rove,
By glen or tow'ring hill,
There's nought seems so enchanting
To me as Wishaw Gill.

Oh! there I spent life's sunny days,
Ere care my heart did fill,

And dear to me is that auld road

That winds thro' Wishaw Gill.

JACOBITE SONG.

I often sit and ponder now,
Down by Coltness auld mill,

And those that sleep in yon kirkyard
Seem with me in the Gill.

Fond brothers seem to live again,
And wander there at will;
Ance more I dream we're gathered a'
And singin' in the Gill,
Or joining with the grand old band
The echoing woods to fill;
Those strains seem floating still around
The banks o' Wishaw Gill.

Thus memory reads a glowing page
I love to think of still,
Again I feel that happiness

O' langsyne in the Gill;

But like a dream they pass away,
And all again is still,

And mournfully I sit and sigh

Alone in Wishaw Gill.

ANON.

219

O Caledon ! O Caledon ! how wretched is thy fate,
I, thy St. Andrew, do lament your poor unhappy state;
O Caledon! O Caledon! how grieved am I to think,
Your sad story written is--with blood instead of ink.

In days of yore you were renowned, conspicuous was your fame,

All nations did your valour praise and loyalty proclaim; Your ancient rights you did maintain, and liberty defend, And scorned to have it thought that you on England did depend.

Unto your kings you did adhere, stood by the royal race, And with them honours great did gain, and paths of glory trace;

With royal Stuart at your head, all enemies did oppose, And, like your brave heroic clans, in pieces cut your foes.

Your kings did justice then dispense, and led you on to fight, And your stupendous courage was, like their example, bright; A happy people then you were, with plenty did abound, And your undaunted loyalty with blessings great was crowned.

But oh, alas! the case is changed, you're wretched and forlorn, The hardships now imposed on you, by slaves are only borne; Your ancient rights, which you so long did with your blood maintain,

Are meanly sold and given up, and you dare scarce complain.

Justice now has left the land, with taxes you're opprest, And every little prattling wretch may freely you molest; The choicest of your noble blood are banished far away, And such as do remain at home must truckle and obey.

Your martial spirit's quite decayed, you're poor contented slaves,

You're kicked and cuffed, oppressed, harassed, by scoundrels, fools, and knaves;

Against your king you did rebel, abjured the royal race, For which just heaven did punish you, with woe, contempt, disgrace.

This prince alone the crown should wear, and royal sceptre sway,
To him alone you should submit, and your allegiance pay;
A prince endowed with virtues rare, so pious and so great,
That were it not to punish you, he'd have a better fate.

Your reputation thus you may, thus only can, retrieve,
And till you justice do to him, you need not think to thrive;
Oh! may the Almighty King of kings His sovereign power
extend,

And his anointed precious life from perils all defend.