I hae a wee bird I wad like ill to tine;

I hae a bright sunbeam, gars ilk corner shine:

I hae a sweet flower blooms the hale winter through-
'Tis bonnie wee Myrtle, my cantie wee doo.

Oh, what did I dae 'fore the wee lassie cam',
Or what's a' earth's riches withoot my wee lamb?
My heart swells wi' joy as I kiss the sweet mou',
O' my bonnie wee Myrtle, my pawkie wee doo.

A'e morn a wee stranger slipt into the toon,
And close by oor ingle sae cosy lay doon;
My wee birdie thocht we'd nae use for her noo,
An' aff on her travels she went, the wee doo,

A kind nee'bor met her, and cried "Bless the day!
Ye're owre a young baby to wander away;"
"I'se dot a wee sissy, I'se no baby noo,'

Spak up my brave Myrtle, the auld-farrant doo.

An' whiles when she sings o' the fair " Happy Land,"
An' the wee lips are lispin' the words "ittie band,"
Her e'en look sae queer that I think, wi' a grue,
She mak's trysts wi' the angels, my guileless wee doo.

May kind heaven spare my wee lammie to me,

My birdie, my sunbeam, the licht o' my e'e;

My sweet scented flower blooms the hale winter through,
My bonnie wee Myrtle, my artless wee doo.

REBECCA HUTCHEON

IS a modest writer of smoothly-running verses. She generally writes in the reflective vein, unmarred by affectation, and characterised by purity and tenderness. She was born at Bowglens, at the head of the beautiful Glen of Drumtochty, in the parish of Fordoun, "about thirty years ago." a little over eight she began life's labours by herding the cow on a neighbouring croft, and since then she has followed the ordinary round of household duties.

When

She presently resides in Aberdeen, and relieves the monotony of her daily cares by penning brief, but thoughtful lines.

CHILDHOOD'S DAYS.

My childhood's home, I loved it so,

With its roof of thatch, and its casement low;
I can see the gleam of its home hearth bright,
And a household met in the kindly light.

I love to think of those childish days,
With their innocent pleasures and trustful ways,
When joys fell thick as the autumn leaves
When the reapers gather the latest sheaves.

When we knew not life, with its work and care,
Its pathways rugged, and stern, and bare;
But earth was an Eden to our view,
And all its dwellers were good and true.

What chains we wove on the daisied grass,
Where the light and shade alternate pass;
And the breeze that drowsily swayed the blooms
Bore the breath of a thousand sweet perfumes.

And we loved to hear, where the willows meet,
The trip of the brooklet's silver feet,

Where it leaped o'er a stone till the white foam gleamed-
What a fall to our childish eyes it seemed.

Oh, the summer noon on the broom-clad braes,
Where we knew each note of the bird's glad lays;
And often strayed till the crimsoned west
Sent each tired wing to it's own home-nest.

When wearied out with the world's false ways,
We look fondly back on the childish days;
And fresh on our hearts, like dews they shine,
The cherished memories of "auld lang syne."

LIFE-A JOURNEY.

Fondled oft by loving hands,
Pressed by mother kisses sweet;
Knows not of life's thorny ways-

Innocent wee baby feet.

Little journey round the room,

Pleased the approving smile to meet;

Holding mother's fingers firm

Timid little baby feet.

Never ceasing footsteps now,
Straying after wild flowers sweet;
Chasing summer butterflies-
Merry, restless childish feet.

I earning's halls must soon be trod,
Fitting for life's work complete ;
Childhood's Eden left behind-
Gladsome, eager, boyish feet.

See the lad, in youthful pride-
Life's glad summer, brief and sweet,
Painting all the future bright—
Hopeful, fearless, youthful feet.

Manhood comes, oppres't with care,
Wearied with the mid-day heat;
Fearless eye, and thoughtful brow-
Sober, earnest, manly feet.

Age comes, leaning on his staff,
Thinking, "would not rest be sweet,"
Ah, your rest is nearly won-
Worn, weary, tired feet.

Laid at last in narrow bed,

While the pink-tipped daisies sweet
Grow above the sleeping form-
Here there's rest for weary feet.

Dawns the resurrection morn,
Safe upon the golden street;
Never more feel fear to stray,
Never more feel weary feet.

N

JOHN T. YULE,

OST-RUNNER, Alva, Stirlingshire, is a

PS voluminous writer of poems and songs, and

the fourth singer in our galaxy of poets who follows this honourable calling. He was born, in 1848, at Milnathort, Kinross-shire, a short distance from Lochleven. His life has been uneventful. After school hours he was wont to "twist the fringes of

shawls," "give in webs," work in the harvest field, and gather potatoes. At the age of twelve he went to learn the shoemaking trade. He followed this business for a short time in Dollar, and also the village of Scotland-Well, and about nine years ago he was appointed the letter-carrier at Alva with its population of about 5000. Although his duties are pretty heavy, he can devote a few hours daily to the awl, and can snatch occasional moments for reading and composition. He is a very frequent contributor, both in prose and verse, to several newspapers, under the noms-de-plume of "Violo Winifred,' "Fugit Hora," &c.

Although his effusions are at times somewhat unequal, and would require pruning and more careful thought, still many of them are pleasing and apparently spontaneous productions. The theme of his Muse is domestic; yet he gives evidence of a strong and intelligent love of Nature, and a deeply-sensitive and loving heart.

WEE ROBIE ROLIC.

Wee Robie Rolic rowin' in glee,

Puin' the daisies bright, chasin' the bee,
Throwin' the chuckie stanes, paikin' the kye,
Wee Robie Rolic, stop noo-fy, fy.

Come to your mammy noo,

Come, come to me:

Scartit your bonny broo,

Losh, pity me;

Fy, Robie Rolic wi' tears in your e'e.

Wee Robie Rolic, aff noo again,

Chasin' the bumble bee over the plain,
Wi' his big bannet sae firm in his han',

Creepin' sae cannily, frichtet to stan'.

There, sic a yell, what has come o'er my bairn,
Tears runnin' fast noo, an' haudin' his arm.

Come, come my bonny doo,

Come, come to me;

Ah! the beast stanget you—

Oh! that vile bee;

Wee Robie Rolic, come, come to my knee.

Wee Robie Rolic, yonder's yer ta,
Cosh in his oxter a white suck-a-ma;
Loupin' and rinnin', forgettin' the pain,
Wee Robie Rolic's a' weel again.

There, noo, he struts like a big, sonsy man,
Sayin' "It's mine ta, it's no to oor Tam."
"Father sweet milk 'ill bring

Hame to my pet;

Tender grass frae the spring
Faither 'll get."

Wee Robie Rolic, rin, open the yett.

Wee Robie Rolic's sleepin' at last,

Hands roun' the wee lamb claspet sae fast;
Ma's bonny lammie is tired out an' sair,
Frae morn till sunset it's play evermair.
Down by the fernie brae, down by the dell,
Whaur yellow flowerets grow by the fay's well.
Wee Robie Rolic, come

Rise up to ma,
Tired wi' ilk frolic, haste,

Come, come awa';

Wee Robie Rolic is worth ither twa.

Wee Robie Rolic, what's this I fin'
In your wee frockie, sae firm stapit in,
Twa bools, a peerie, a wee curly dug,

Three legs, a stump, aye, an' wantin' the lug,
Losh me a cracker, where's he got that-
Wee Robie Rolic's just a wild brat.
Come to your bedie ba',

Sleepy wee man ;

Tak' care and dinna fa'
O'er the big pan;

Wee Robie Rolic's fond, fond o' mam.

Three bonny bairnies there in their bed,
Ane at the fit o't, and twa at the head,
Father's come in frae the sheep i' the glen,
Fu' cosy's the cot beside the sheep pen.
Far far away frae the din o' the plain;
Plenty o' milk an' meal, nae routh o' gain.
Saftly on zephyr borne

Up from the vale

Cometh the cuckoo's horn,

With the stream's wail,

Strange is its weird voice up from the dale.

EVENING THOUGHTS.

I watched the little children play
Along the stream at evening's fall;
With merry hearts, through all the day,
They wandered out; the morning sun