From the time he was a "herd callant," he was a diligent and thoughtful reader, and embraced every opportunity of gaining knowledge. William is quite proud of his carefully-selected library of about 400 volumes. He used to "jingle rhymes" together when at school, but he was thirty years of age before he "appeared in print" in the poet's corner of the People's Journal. Here he was a regular contributor of humorous ditties and sketches, displaying much natural pawkiness, with a sweet mingling of deep pathos, and bearing unequivocal evidence of having been drawn from the life. All his pieces have the nom-de-plume of "Bill Stumps," by which he is widely known, and which he adopted when he sent his first piece for publication. He has ever been an ardent admirer of Nature in all her aspects; but it was not until he had got settled down in "a hoose o' my ain that he had an opportunity of gratifying his taste to any extent. He then entered on the study and cultivation of flowers, and knowing something of botany, and having, as he is pleased to term it, given up in a great measure his " hobby" of poetry, he devotes all his spare time to these ennobling pursuits.

ON THE BEER.

See yon human figure hoo he reels alang,
He's sae awfu' souple he can hardly gang;
Sometimes lauchin' loudly, trying whiles to sing,
Seemin' quite contented, happy as a king.
Ilka wee bit laddie tryin' to imitate

A' his strange contortions an' his awkward gait ;
What's the matter wi' him need a body speer-
He's some drouthy neebour gotten on the beer.

Losh hoo queer he's lookin', what a fearsome chiel,
Ane could 'maist be certain he was far frae weel;
Hoo he becks an' staggers, up an' doon he goes-
'Od he'll get a downcome-he'll be on his nose.
What the mischief ails him? has he tint his wits?
Has he taen the colic, or convulsion fits?
Has he just recovered frae distress severe ?

No, there's naething ails him--he's upon the beer.

Hoo his een are starin', hoo he thraws his mouth,
"Twould been better for him had he tholed his drouth
A' his senses dormant, left withoot a guide,
Like a waif abandoned on a stormy tide.
Noo he's clean bewildered, blind to a' he meets,
Helpless as an infant rollin' in the streets;
Sunk in degradation, what a wreck is here-
Human nature prostrate, lyin' on the beer.

See hoo sound he's sleepin', like a nine-year-auld;
O'd he'll catch the toothache or his death o' cauld;
He will get his claithin' a' besmeared wi' dirt,
He micht get a lounder frae a baker's cart;
Or some heavy waggon, phæton, gig, or chaise,
Soon micht knock his nose aff or his corny taes ;
For he's fou's a fiddler-canna budge or steer;
What a risk he's rinnin', lyin' on the beer.

Weary fa' the drappie, muckle grief it's made;
Hoo it plagues a body when it's in their head,"
Breeds them muckle sorrow, muckle wae and dool,
Mak's them fit for naething but to play the fool,

Gi'es them mony a downcome, brings them muckle skaith, Brings them aft to ruin, brings them whiles to death. Weary fa' the drappie, it's a sad career,

When we find enjoyment daidlin' on the beer.

THE COO WI' THE IRON TAIL.

There are mony kye o' different breeds,
Baith big, an' middlin', an' sma',
An' guid, an' bad, an' indifferent, too,
An' hornies an' doddies an' a'.

But there's no a hawkie in a' the lot,

For fillin' the milkin'-pail,

Can compare wi' her that's the theme o' my sang-
The coo wi' the iron tail.

An' oh! she's an unco usefu' beast,

For the leelang winter through,

She never gangs yell gif she's keepit in trim,

Whatever the ithers may do :

An' the folks wha drive a trade in milk

I'm sure their supply wad fail,

Gif it wisna for this by ordinar beast

The coo wi' the iron tail.

She's easy keepit, she needs nae meat,

Except when she's aff the fang,

When a drink o' water sune puts her as richt,

As if she had never been wrang.

An' though ye wad search the breadth o' the globe,
Frae America's wilds to Crail,

Ye'll no find a beast for supplyin' the sap

Like the coo wi' the iron tail.

O' different sizes, an' different shapes,
An' different colours she's seen;

She's sometimes black, an' sometimes white,
An' blue, an' yellow, an' green.

An' she stands the bitterest winter storm,
'Mid frost, an' snaw, an' hail;

Wi' a rough strae-raip row'd roun' her craig-
The coo wi' the iron tail.

An' yet there are some, I'm sorry to say,
Wad hint that she's no the thing-
That the milk she gi'es has a bluish hue,
An' a taste o' the cauler spring.

But what signifies that i' this warld o' ours,
When it meets wi' a ready sale;

Sae here's to the milkman's stay an' support -
The coo wi' the iron tail.

SILLER.

In this weary warld, wi' a' its attractions,
Sae closely entwined wi' our dearest affections,
There's ae thing that gies a keen zest to our actions,
An' that is a likin' for siller.

It's common to a', frae the wee raggit laddie,
Whase breeks are a' torn, an' whase jacket is duddy,
To the hoary auld villain that's cheatit the widdie,
They a' hae a likin' for siller.

"Oh wae on the siller, it is sae prevailin',"
Sae sang Robbie Burns, the power o't bewailin';
An' Robin was richt, for in health or in ailin',
It's a real powerfu' article siller.

Hoo mony fine schemes i' the bud hae been checkit,
Great plans left unfinished that hae been projeckit;
I've even kent cases whaur kirks hae been stickit-
An a' for the want o' the siller.

Ah, siller is noble, an siller's transcendent,
It mak's ye sae clever an' real independent,
That amaist a' the evils on mortals attendant
Will vanish at sicht o' the siller.

If you'd wish to rise frae some humble station,
An' mix wi' the great anes o' this generation,
Your talents will be little recommendation,
Withoot ye hae plenty o' siller.

A man without siller is seldom respeckit,
He may do his best, but he's sair' sair negleckit;
For what i' this warld cud ere be expeckit,
Frae a bodie withoot ony siller?

I've heard an auld sang aboot "Naebody kens ye,"
That says siller "breaks ye, an' mak's ye, an' men's ye,"
Sae 'mid a' the blessings kind Providence sen's ye,
Ye aye should be thankfu' for siller.

For though ye be doited, half-daft, or clean crazy,
Though yer auld pow be bald, or as white as a daisy,
Ye'll hae plenty o' frien's that'll study to please ye-
Provided ye've plenty o' siller.

But wait ye awee, should misfortunes o'ertake ye,
Ten chances to ane but your frien's will forsake ye;
An' they'll care nae a snuff though grim poverty shake ye,
If he's shaken ye clear o' your siller.

An' it's no muckle wonder that friendships are broken,
The love o' the siller's sae strong, mair by token,
The clergy themsel's, "wi' reverence be't spoken,"
Are blamed for bein' fond o' the siller.

Then try an' get siller, ye're no richt withoot it,
It's handy to hae, that's a fact undisputit;

An' it's no guid to get-that's the warst thing aboot it—
What mair need be said aboot siller?

LORD NEAVES

66

AD many other claims to admiration, and even to fame, besides the lustre which he shed over the Bar and the Bench of Scotland, although for them he lived, and in their service were exercised his rare and varied endowments of mind. "The career of a successful barrister," says the writer of an "obituary" in the Journal of Jurisprudence," "commencing with early struggles, rising with more or less rapidity into practice, and crowned at last with the position and dignity of a judge, although full of excitement, sometimes even of romance in the inner life, usually presents little that is salient or eventful to the outer world. Sometimes an Eldon or a Brougham shoots out from the crowd into public

and political distinction; sometimes a Jeffrey makes a bold and successful dash into the field of literature, but if that does not happen before briefs begin to accumulate, it either never happens at all, or only arrives to stifle the chances of forensic success.' Pope lamented that so many good poets had been spoiled by the superior attractions of law and politics. Wilson and Lockhart were vigorous thinkers who deserted their original calling for the ranks of authorship, and the instinct "to pen a stanza when he should engross must have been so strong in Scott that the law would have made him a prisoner.

Charles Neaves, one of the Lords of Session, and an accomplished scholar, eminent lawyer, and upright judge, was born in Edinburgh on 14th October, 1800, and died in December, 1876. His father was for many years Principal Clerk of the Court of Justiciary. At the High School and University our poet gave evidence of a powerful mind. His family connections and influence naturally selected the law for his profession, and at an early age he made his way at the Scottish bar as a distinguished and popular barrister, an able pleader, and, when the time came, a judge universally appreciated. In 1822 he was admitted a member of the Faculty of Advocates, and was appointed Sheriff of Orkney and Shetland in 1845. He became Solicitor-General for Scotland in 1852, and was raised to the Bench, with the courtesy title of Lord Neaves, in 1854.

In boyhood he gave remarkable evidence of two qualities in particular, and these continued to be distinctive of the man throughout his whole career— a rapid, tenacious, and accurate memory, and an insatiable avidity for the acquisition of knowledge. He seldom forgot anything he once knew, and he seemed to have the faculty of laying it by in the storehouse of his brain, and bringing it out, at whatever interval, fresh and well-preserved. This faculty, however, did not diminish his habits of study-in