Until the gloom o' winter,
The spring awa' shall clear,
An' set ye singin' gaily

The life-sang o' the year.

Sweet warblers o' the wildwood,
Then why sae sad an' wae;
For man an' beast there's plenty,
To meet cauld winter's sway;
Tho' noo the sun be hidden,
He yet will shine fu' clear,
An' lauch awa this sadness,

Gin the spring-tide o' the year.

THE COMING O' THE SPRING.

The snaw has left the mountain's side, an' ilka upland rill,
Careerin' frae its fountain head, rins bickerin' down the hill;
Rejoicing in the sunny beams the merry midges dance;
While up the caller, crystal streams the minnowy shoals advance.
The robin to the wood retreats to end his wintry cares,
The plaintive cushat gladly greets the zephyr's gentle airs;
While on the plantain's sunny side the merles sweetly sing,
An' hail wi' love, an' joy an' pride the coming o' the Spring.

Blythe Nature noo wi' eident hand resumes her wark again,
An' weaves a web o' verdure grand on wood, an' hlll, an' plain;
The early gowans deck the leas, an' boughs wi' green leaves hing,
Whaur sweetly sing the merry bees the coming o' the Spring.

The village bairns amang the knowes, or by the burnie clear,
Noo gaily wreathe aroun' their brows the firstlings o' the year;
Nae king on coronation day like them can lauch or sing,
Or hail mair blythesomely than they the coming o' the Spring.

Auld folk that by the ingle nook-the cheerless winter past—
Noo daunder by the wimplin' burn secure frae Boreas' blast,
Tho' life's to them a burden grown, yet Hope on joyfu' wing,
Wafts high their thoughts to yon abode, where blooms unfading
Spring.

F

WILLIAM MILLER.

UST as the sweetest spots, and the most beautiful scenery in all our mountain land, are often to be found hidden away in nameless fairy glens, and concealed in solitary nooks, far from the common paths of the fussy tourist and the "professional " pleasure-seeker, so frequently the best and the most loveable of the human race are to be met with in the humblest situations, and hidden away altogether from the glare of the great world, and from the busy, bustling walks of life. The lives of such men are not always, however, devoid of interest, or quite without any air of romance. The life of William Miller furnishes a conclusive proof of this. He was

a native of Dalkeith, and was born there about the year 1810. All his life was spent in his much-loved native place. To him the wide waving woods which surround it, and the blue purling streams which sweep past it on either side, were an unfailing source of pleasure, as almost all his sweet poetical effusions testify. He delighted in solitary walks, and many of his best poems were composed when wandering alone by the banks of the South and North Esk streams. His father was check-clerk at one of Sir John Hope's collieries, and highly respected. Young Miller, having received a fair English education, was taken from school to be made a tailor. Afterwards, he generally worked by himself in his mother's house, as he greatly preferred being alone to working in the company of others, in the bustle and stir of a workshop.

In 1838 the shy hard published a volume of poems, entitled " 'Hours of Solitude." It was well received by his fellow-townsmen, and favourably noticed by the press. He died in 1865 in consequence of injuries received at Eskbank railway station on the return of an excursion party, which he had accom

panied to Innerleithen. William Miller was never married; but to find a true poet who had not been in love, would be about as difficult to meet with as it is to get hold of the philosopher's stone! The humble tailor, therefore, had felt the tender passion. He was engaged to be married to a young woman, an orphan, of the name of Mary Gordon. We think she belonged to some place in the north, and perhaps she was a "Highland Mary;" at any rate she had come south to Dalkeith to service. Miller and she had gone to Edinburgh "to buy the braws," and they had just entered a jeweller's shop to purchase the wedding ring, when poor Mary was taken so ill that she had to leave the place without it. With great difficulty he got her home, and laid upon that bed from which she never rose again. Ere the lapse of two days" her immortal spirit," to use his own words, had passed from earth, away through the everlasting gates into the new Jerusalem."

Miller left numerous poems in manuscript, which, on his deathbed, he committed to the keeping of Mr Wm. Todd, now of Edinburgh. Although they excel in purity of sentiment, and fine poetic imagery, Mr Todd has not as yet seen fit to publish them. Our first extract from the works of this genuine son of song, whose life was as pure as his poetry, is the poem which he wrote on the death of his affianced, which he entitles

A LAMENT FOR MARY.
I little dreamt that loathsome worm,
Would prove my rival dread!

I never dreamt that the cold grave
Would be thy bridal bed!

Nor thought I that thy wedding dress

A snow-white shroud should be!

Thy marriage guests the voiceless dead-
Å silent company!

But gazing through a veil of tears,
The mournful truth I see;

Here, bending o'er thy hallow'd tomb,
I sob, and weep for thee.

Though blighted by the hand of Death,
My cherished flow'ret fair
Enshrined within my memory
Shall blossom ever there.

No other human-flow'r that blooms
In Nature's garden wide,

Shall share the love I bore for thee-
My vanish'd joy and pride.

Since burst asunder now's the chain,
That bound two hearts in one;
In widowhood my heart shall mourn
For thee, its partner gone.

While Sorrow, with his keenest dart,
Pierces my inmost core-

While now, in bitterness of woe
Thy absence I deplore,

Sweet Hope! to soothe my anguish'd heart
(That boon to mortals given)

Whispers, though parted now on earth,
We'll meet again in heaven.

TO A SKYLARK.

Blythe bird of cheerful heart! how sweetly clear,
Thy notes melodious fall upon mine ear,
Ascending slowly up to Heav'n's gate" high,
Admiring angels list thy minstrelsy.

On fluttering wing thou moun'st thy airy way,
Thy form a speck upon the face of day.
Now thou art gone beyond the reach of view,
Lost in the depths of the etherial blue.
Ha! once again I hail thee-songster wild,
Minstrel of morn, and Nature's happiest child;
Once more thy mirthful voice of song to rest,
Wav'ring like leaf, thou seek'st thy lowly nest.
So soars the bard in fancy's fairy sky-
So sinks the humble bard to dark obscurity.

SONG OF THE MOON.

My sire, in the West,
Has retired to rest,-

The glorious King of day—
And my lofty throne,

I now mount upon,
O'er boundless realms to sway.

As empress of night,
"Tis my regal right

To reign over land and sea.
What monarch of earth,
Of mortal birth,

Can rival my sovereignty?

I

O'er mountain and wood,
O'er valley and flood,
My silvery veil I spread;

Whilst a silence reigns,
Through my vast domains,
As if all within were dead.

O'er the regions of Night,
By my soft pale light,
I emulate cheerful day;
Belated and lone

As he journeys on,

I illume the traveller's way.

'Neath my friendly ray,
Fond lovers stray,

Their mutual vows to plight;

And

And poets love,

Alone to rove,

gaze on my beautiful light.

In their solitude,
And dreamy mood,
They deem me a lady fair;
Or an angel bright,
From the land of light,
A companionless wanderer.

On the glassy stream,
I quiver and gleam,
And mirror my fair round face,
To the skirting wood,
That o'erhangs the flood,
I lend an enlivening grace.

The all-potent sea
Owns my sovereignty,

On which the great ships ride;

The maniac main,

To his bed I chain,

And over his tide preside.

The starry train

Pale their light while I reign Obscured by my splendour bright; And their sparkling rays,

In my glory's blaze,

Are lost to the gazer's sight.

A resplendent gem,
In Heaven's diadem,
I seem to the poet's eye,
Or a great lamp bright,
Of reflecting light,

Hung up in the dome of the sky!