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The wand'rer, wha sair burdened ben's
'Mang poortith's drifting snaw-
The feckless, wha naebody kens-
Hameless, at e'enin' fa'!

O! when our sun gaes to its bed,
An' daylight creeps awa',

May Hope's pure star its glory shed,
Aroun' our e'enin' fa';

A friendly hand to close my e'e,
Night's curtains round me draw,
An' drap a burning tear o'er me,
Unseen, at e'enin' fa'.

T

EBENEZER SMITH,

'HE author of three volumes of "Verses," (for thus he modestly designates the offspring of his Muse) was born in "the auld toun o' Ayr" in 1835, where his fathers dwelt for generations. Like many men of note, Mr Smith received the first part of his education at a dame's school; it was completed, however, at the Wallacetown Academy. The teacher occasionally gave the boys a subject on which they had to write an essay in verse; and so early as his twelfth year our young bard wrote a poem on Burns' Monument. At the age of thirteen he was put to learn the shoemaking trade, and in course of time succeeded to the business which had been carried on by his grandfather, and was most successful, until he became indifferent, and forsook it for the company of the convivial. His business was ultimately taken out of his hands, and since then he has been working as journeyman, greatly respected by the head of the large firm by which he is employed. It is pleasing also to learn that, from his family connections with the incorporation of the Ayr Shoe

makers, to whom the Burns cottage at Alloway belonged, and which was recently sold, Mr Smith has now had secured to him a moderate competency for life.

Mr Smith began "to lisp in numbers" at the early age of twelve years, and he has, he says, "at longer or shorter intervals, scribbled ever since." In 1870 he published his first volume; in 1874 he brought out a second; and at the close of 1880, a third.

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Mr Smith disclaims all pretensions to the name of poet, and chooses to speak of himself only as a writer of "verses." When authors talk too frequently of their productions in this style, we are inclined to think that it is only a sort of mock humility, and a covert way of courting praise. If they really consider their productions devoid of merit, why obtrude them upon the public. He, however, is a poet, though we believe that he prides himself more on his facility of verse-making, than on his merit as a poet. That he has very great facility in this respect is certain, but we are almost disposed to call it a "fatal facility "; and by allowing his rhymes to "come skelpin' rank an' file," he does himself great injustice, for were he to compose his poems more leisurely, and throw more study into the work, he has latent powers within him which would enable him to rise to a far loftier flight than he has ever yet attained.

THE EVEN-SONG.

The day is declining, and nature is weary,
And sighs itself softly to slumber and rest;
And into the shade the sky-lark so cheery,

Has sunk with the sunbeam that gilded its breast!

Brave bird! it soared high as its pinions could bear it,
To catch the last ray of the light it adored;
And lost in the cloud, whence I hardly could hear it,
Its anthem of praise on the evening outpoured!

Its hymn of delight and of thankfulness ended,
In love's lowly dwelling-place now it is blest!

The service with which unto heaven it ascended,
On earth is rewarded with rapturous rest!

Oh, man! if thy mind have a spark of emotion—
If aught from the clod thy affection can raise—
Look up to the lark's lovely act of devotion,

And follow its flight with like chorus of praise!

At eve, when the beam that hath bless'd thee declineth,
Sing thanks unto Him who its glory hath given;
Then sink into darkness, rememb'ring he shineth,
And find in the grave but the gateway to Heaven!
BONNIE AYR.

Far be the hour that bids me quit
This sacred spot of earth,

To me as dear as ever yet

To man was place of birth!
Oh Death! do not, I humbly pray,
My heart's strong tendrils tear:
Let them decay, and drop away,
And die embracing Ayr!

For ever as the tide returns,
To fondle shore and shell;

Or evening cloud, when sunset burns
To rest on grey Goatfell-

My heart, when haply I have stray'd,
Whilst other scenes were spurned,

To Ayr's unrivalled classic shade,
With rapture has returned.

As constant as the vale's sweet stream
Is to its lowly bed,

Through which, as in a songful dream,

Slow winds its silver thread;

Or as the oak is to the glade

In which the acorn grew;

My heart, through sunshine and through shade,
Auld Ayr, has been to you!

As closely as the flowers infold

Their first sweet drop of dew;

Or buds, the quick'ning beams of gold
With which life's breath thy drew-

As closely as the woodbine's arms
Enclose the bending tree-

Auld Ayr unrivalled in thy charms,
My heart encloses thee!

Far be the hour that bids me quit

This sacred spot of earth

As dear to me as ever yet
To man was place of birth!

Oh Death! do not, I humbly pray,
My heart's strong tendrils tear:
Let them decay, and drop away,
And die embracing Ayr.

TO BACCHUS.

Go, Bacchus, go! thy cloven foot
Betokens all that's evil!
Thy clusters are forbidden fruit;
Thou'rt a deceiving devil!

False angel! ask me not to kiss
Thy goblet filled with nectar;
There's brimstone in thy cup of bliss-
Beneath thy wings a spectre !

Nay! weave not here thy golden wile;
I fear its fascination,

And dread, beneath thy dimpling smile,
Dark depths of dissipation!

I trace upon thy jocund cheeks
The countenance of sadness;

And hear, when thou dost sing, the shrieks
Of misery and madness!

There's wrath in that bright lustre red
Through which thy form is shining;
A charnel-house beneath the bed

On which thou art reclining !

And who are these, in forms of air,
A hideous group creating?

Distress, disease, and death are there,

And imps impatient waiting!

Heaven help the wretch who does not flee
Thy voice and air inviting;
Who unsuspecting sits with thee,
In dalliance dread delighting!

I, shuddering yet, recall the hour
When, with an eye that glistened,
You breath'd out bless in Eden's bow'r,
And found a fool that listened!

Thou 'witched'st me with wanton face,
And softest songs did sing me;
But once in thy unblest embrace,
With scorpion tail didst sting me!

Then from my paradise in spring
The foliage fresh departed;
And all its flow'rs hung withering,
And I was broken hearted!

I heard God's voice as I surveyed
With awful transformation,
And fled, despairing and dismayed,
From death and desolation !

Accursed fiend! I fled too late!
And now, where'er I be,
By habit followed, as by fate,
I cannot fly from thee!

By all the griefs of days gone by!
By all this soul must suffer!
I'll curse, until the day I die,
The cup which thou didst proffer!

Go, Bacchus, go! thy cloven foot
Betokens all that's evil;

Thy clusters are forbidden fruit;
Thou'rt a deceiving devil!

WILLIAM WALKER,

("BILL STUMPS,")

father

UTHOR of many humorous and pleasinglysarcastic poems, was born in 1830. had a small farm in the neighbourhood of St Andrews, Fifeshire. William left school at an early age to "herd kye," and to assist with the work of the "tackie." After following the calling of a ploughman on a large farm for about eight years, he became tired of agricultural life, and removed a short distance to a place called Strathkinness, where he has lived ever since, working in a freestone quarry. Unlike many of our bards, by steadiness and industry he had " saved siller"-sufficient to build a small cottage for himself, in which, in single blessedness, he lives with an unmarried sister, as happy as a king."

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