The wand'rer, wha sair burdened ben's O! when our sun gaes to its bed, May Hope's pure star its glory shed, A friendly hand to close my e'e, 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. 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, Has sunk with the sunbeam that gilded its breast! Brave bird! it soared high as its pinions could bear it, Its hymn of delight and of thankfulness ended, The service with which unto heaven it ascended, Oh, man! if thy mind have a spark of emotion— And follow its flight with like chorus of praise! At eve, when the beam that hath bless'd thee declineth, Far be the hour that bids me quit To me as dear as ever yet To man was place of birth! For ever as the tide returns, Or evening cloud, when sunset burns My heart, when haply I have stray'd, To Ayr's unrivalled classic shade, As constant as the vale's sweet stream 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, As closely as the flowers infold Their first sweet drop of dew; Or buds, the quick'ning beams of gold As closely as the woodbine's arms Auld Ayr unrivalled in thy charms, Far be the hour that bids me quit This sacred spot of earth As dear to me as ever yet Oh Death! do not, I humbly pray, TO BACCHUS. Go, Bacchus, go! thy cloven foot False angel! ask me not to kiss Nay! weave not here thy golden wile; And dread, beneath thy dimpling smile, I trace upon thy jocund cheeks And hear, when thou dost sing, the shrieks There's wrath in that bright lustre red On which thou art reclining ! And who are these, in forms of air, Distress, disease, and death are there, And imps impatient waiting! Heaven help the wretch who does not flee I, shuddering yet, recall the hour Thou 'witched'st me with wanton face, Then from my paradise in spring I heard God's voice as I surveyed Accursed fiend! I fled too late! By all the griefs of days gone by! Go, Bacchus, go! thy cloven foot Thy clusters are forbidden fruit; 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." 66 |