"Our son is upon the hill, gudeman,
Our daughter is teddin' hay;

And meikle I fear that ane, or baith,
Come to skaith on this awsome day!"

"O, dinna be fley't, mine auld gudewife,
That outher we're gaun to tyne-
Though wrath be sair on land and sea,
It's nouther 'gainst yours nor mine.

"And I dred it wad be a day o' dool
For the trespass o' the land;

'Tis vengeance that cleadeth the lift wi' mirk, And bareth its red richt hand.

"For a godless, graceless band are met,

This day in Edinbruch toun;

And a' to set up the thing we hate,
And pu' the gude cause doun."

"O, hear ye the thick spate fa', gudeman,
And the hailstanes dirl the pane?—
Ye're welcome, children; Heaven be praised,
We see you in life again."

"O, faither, is this the day o' doom,

When the dead and the quick sall meet?
A fire-clud sits on the heigh hill-tap,
And hisses like hail and sleet.

"The muircock coured 'neath the heather cow, At the side o' the Corbie-craw;

And they feared na him, and he feared na me, And ae dread possest us a'!

"And the fire hung red frae my bonnet-rim,
And flichtered amang my hair ;

And I thocht wi' mysel', as a prayer I said,
We never sall meet aince mair.

The burns rin wild and roarin' rude,
Where burns ne'er wont to be;
And hadna a gude God led my steps
Ye never had looked on me!"

And, mither, when up in the spretty clench,
A-kylin' the winter hay,

The mirkness fell down sae thick, I thocht

My sicht had stown away.

"And the laverock that sang i' the lift at morn,

Cam sklentin' doun wi' the rain,

And I've keepit the wee thing in my breast

To shelter its heart frae pain!"

""Tis a day o' wrath and strife, my bairns
A day o' storm and mirk;

For the King's black bands o' Prelacy
Are conspirin' against the Kirk.

"O, sit ye doun, my children baith,
The thunder is wearin' caulm;

And Willie sall read the blessed buik,

And Mary sall sing the psaulm.

"And we'll a' kneel doun by the braid hearth-stane,
And your faither in faith sall pray,

That the God o' grace may defend the richt,

And banish our fears away!"

THE MARTYRS OF CORSEGELLIOCH.

[In the summer of 1685 three covenanters were shot on this lone mountain, which lies about four miles south of Cumnock. A small memorial stone long marked the spot, but in 1827 a handsome monument was erected in its stead. In cutting the foundation for it, the bodies of the three butchered men were found in the moss, lying in their hosen and their plaids, just as they fell; and although 142 years had passed away since then, neither the bodies nor the clothing were in the least degree decayed. One of them had fine locks of auburn hair, a portion of which, with shreds of their clothing, are still preserved.

On lone Corsegellioch height I stood,
And gazed afar o'er many a rood
Of yawning moss, and whistling bent,
And tufts of blooming heather,
Which to the breeze sweet perfume lent,
In the clear autumnal weather.

Wild was the scene, and bleak withal,
The raven's croak, the lapwing's call,
And startled covey's noisy flight-
No other sound we greeted;

How sad 'twere thus to spend the night,
Me thought, as, by the waning light,
I from the wold retreated.

Yet as my homeward course I plied,
A grey sepulchral stone I spied;
All in a dark morass it stood,

By pious hands erected,

Marking a spot, bleak, wild and rude,
Where Zion's bands, sincere and good,
Lurked lorn and unprotected.

And 'neath that stone,-oh, sad to tell!
Three comely youth's sleep where they fell
In bonnet broad and hodden gear,

Shot down by hands unsparing-
The shepherd of the upland drear,
Recounts with undissembled tear,
A deed so foul and daring.

Long had the spot unmarked remained,
Save by the moss-stone weather stained,
But known full well to many a one
Through changing generations,
Traditionally, from sire to son,

Whilst crowns and sceptres, lost and won,
Made strife among the nations.

At length, slight tribute to their fame!
That stone which bears their honoured name,
Far up on the horizon's rim,

Records their mournful story;
Heraldic pomp grows mean and dim,
War's proudest triumphs swart and grim,
Contrasted with their glory!

For Christ's dear sake, they left their all,
By Christ's blest cause to stand or fall,
Braving the worldling's loud disdain,—
Man's fellest wrath enduring;

But strong in faith of Jesus slain,
With him to mount, with him to reign,
Unending bless securing.

A relic, shown with miser care,
A treasured lock of auburn hair,

Was kept by those the stone that reared,
Struck all with breathless wonder,

When, as if yesterday interred,
Those martyrs to the gaze appeared,
Short space the moss-turf under.

Ah, who can tell what hearts were wrung
For those lone sleepers, fair and young!-
What high-wrought hopes, what breathings fond,
In those dark days and olden,

Were drown'd in tears for him that owned
That ringlet soft and golden!

THE PANG O' LOVE.

The pang o' love is ill to dree-
Hech wow! the biding o't--
'Twas like to prove the death o' me,
I strove sae lang at hiding o't.

When first I saw the wicked thing,
I wistna it meant ill to me:
I straiked its bonny head and wing,
And took the bratchet on my knee;
I kiss'd it ance, I kiss'd it twice,
Sae kind was I in guiding o't,
When, whisk!-it shot me in a trice,
And left me to the biding o't.

An' hey me! how me!

Hech wow! the biding o't!
For ony ill I've had to dree
Was naething to the biding o't.
The doctors' pondered lang and sair,
To rid me o' the stanging o't;
The skeely wives a year and mair,
They warstled hard at banging o't.
But doctors' drugs did fient a haet-
Ilk wifie quat the guiding o't-
They turned, and left me to my fate,
Wi' naething for't but biding o't.
An' hey me! how me! etc.

When friends had a' done what they dought,
Right sair bumbazed my state to see,
A bonny lass some comfort brought-
I'll mind her till the day I dee;
I tauld her a' my waefu' case,

And how I'd stri'en at hiding o't,
And blessings on her honny face!
She saved me frae the biding o't.
An' hey me! how me! etc.

DINNA GREET FOR ME.

O gently, gently raise me up on this sad bed, my spouse,
To look ance mair upon the wood where first we changed vows;
The Spring is comin', Jeanie, for the trees begin to blaw,
But ere the leaf is fully blawn, a widow's tears will fa'!
My heart is beatin' loud and fast, and ilka beat a pang,
The dead-bell soundin' in my lug has tauld me I maun gang,
And death has come to our bedside, but oh! its hard to dee,
And part wi' a' I've loved sae weel-yet dinna greet for me!
I had a waefu' dream yestreen-what gars me tell it now?—
Methought I saw a stranger lad, and he was courtin' you;
But the willow-tree hung o'er you, for I watched its brances wave,
And the wither'd bink ye sat on was a newly cover'd grave!
The heavy moon was risin' on the simmer day's decline,

And dead men's banes a' glimmer'd white beneath the pale moonshine.

It was a sad ungratefu' dream-for, oh! your kindly e'e

Has mair than warld's wealth in its look-ye maunna greet for me!

We'll meet within a happier land that opens to my view;
And yet Heav'n kens, my earthly heart wad rather stay wi' you,
Wi' you and that wee bairn, that ance we thocht sae muckle bliss,
Ower weak a flower to leave alane in sic a warld as this!
For mony a tear her little e'e may ha'e to gather yet,
And haply mony a wearie gait awaits her hamless fit;

But "The Father of the fatherless" maun fend for her and
thee-

To doubt wad be a sin, my Jean -sae dinna greet for me!

REV. ROBERT E. MURRAY

S the younger brother of the subject of the prelife

was very much that of the elder. They studied together at the same seminaries of learning, and in the summer months they read the Greek and Roman poets together, and likewise luxuriated in the enticing fields of modern literature. While we know that at college the name of James was always to be found in the prize list, Robert, though too modest to say anything on this matter as regards himself, was nevertheless a favourite student of the late Dr Chalmers. As we have already stated, Robert was ordained minister of the parish of New Cumnock at the Disruption, and here he still continues to labour for the good of his people. Although he has long cultivated literature, yet he has never allowed his love for and his pursuit of it to interfere with the higher interests of his flock.

Besides occasionally contributing to the periodicals, Mr Murray, in 1871, published "The Day-Spring from on High, and other Poems;" and, more recently, he has brought out "The Scriptural Doctrine of Repentance unto Life," a series of twelve superior sermons. Both volumes were received with high favour, and a second edition of "The Day-Spring from on High,' with several poems added, is passing through the press at the time we write.

The Day-Spring from on High" is a lengthy poem showing the dealings of the Creator with mankind down through the ages, proving a Divine revelation, and vindicating the ways of God to man. Written

in the octosyllabic measure, which is managed with graceful ease, and a fine melodious ring, the reasoning is conducted with great power, notwithstanding