man.

His literary productions are numerous; but he will be longest remembered for his songs, some of which, exquisitely pure, simple, and pawkily wise, have obtained a world-wide renown. Two of his songs especially, "Castles in the Air" and "Ilka Blade o' Grass keps its ain drap o' Dew," are known to every singer of "a guid Scotch sang." He was born in 1808, at the West Port of Edinburgh, and lost his father, who was a brewer, when he was only ten years old. Being the youngest of the family, which consisted of three daughters and himself, his early training devolved upon his mother, who did all in her power to obtain for her children the advantages of an ordinary education. While yet a mere boy, however, he had to exert himself for his own support and the assistance of the family. He was accordingly apprenticed to a house-painter, and very soon attained to considerable proficiency in his trade. On growing up to manhood he made strenuous exertions to obtain the educational advantages which were not within his reach at an earlier period of life, and about his twentieth year he attended the University of Edinburgh for the study of anatomy, with a view to his professional improvement. At a subsequent period he turned his attention to the art of painting on glass, and he was long well known as one of the most distinguished of British artists in that department. When the designs and specimens of glass-painting for the windows of the House of Lords were publicly competed for, the Royal Commissioners of the Fine Arts adjudged those produced by Mr Ballantine as the best which were exhibited, and the execution of the work was entrusted to him.

Although Mr Ballantine began at a very early age to woo the Muse, some of his most popular pieces having been produced about his sixteenth year, he made his first appearance in print in the pages of

Whistle Binkie." In 1843 the early edition of his well-known work, "The Gaberlunzie's Wallet," was

published in monthly numbers, illustrated by the late Alexander Ritchie. This production was enriched with some of his best lyrics. There was something taking in the very title of the work, and the evidences of original genius which it displayed were strong and unmistakable. It proved that the author had an eye to the picturesque, an ear for verse, and a true feeling both for the humorous and pathetic. A cheap edition was issued by the Edinburgh Publishing Company in 1874. This work was followed by "The Miller of Deanhaugh," which likewise contains a number of songs and ballads. In 1856 Messrs Constable & Co., of Edinburgh, published an edition of his poems, including many of those which had been previously given to the world. This volume contains the happiest effusions of his genius, and at once procured him a prominent place in the country's literature.

In 1875 a volume appeared from his pen, entitled "One Hundred Songs," and a later production, containing a love tale in the Spenserian stanza called "Lilias Lee," and "Malcolm Canmore," an historical drama, was issued in 1872. Mr Ballantine died in December, 1877, at the ripe age of seventy. His poetry is not the mere dreamy effusion of sentimental fancy, but a faithful transcript of the impressions produced upon an honest heart and a discerning mind by mutual contact with the realties of life. One of his reviewers has said that "his exquisite taste for the beautiful in natural scenery and in language, his keen eye to observe, and his warm heart to commiserate the sorrows of mankind, render him a sweet singer' after Nature's own heart; while his thorough mastery of the fine language of old Scotland, in all its wealth and pith of expressive terms and familiar idioms, gives him the power to wield at will the sympathies and feelings of a large portion of his fellow-countrymen." The grand lesson of his life is that while loving and wooing the

poetic spirit, he resolutely minded his business. Lord Cockburn, who was an admirer of the man as well as the poet, condensed the moral of his dual life in one happy phrase: Ballantine, he said, "made business feed the Muses, and the Muses grace the business."

CASTLES IN THE AIR.

The bonnie, bonnie bairn sits pokin' in the ase,
Glowerin' in the fire wi' his wee round face;
Laughin' at the fuffin' lowe--what sees he there?
Ha! the young dreamer's biggin' castles in the air!

His wee chubby face, an' his towzy curly pow,
Are laughin' an' noddin' to the dancin' lowe;
He'll brown his rosy cheeks, and singe his sunny hair,
Glowerin' at the imps wi' their castles in the air.

He sees muckle castles towerin' to the moon,
He sees little sodgers puin' them a' doun;
Warlds whomlin' up an' doun' blazin' wi' a flare,
Losh! how he loups, as they glimmer in the air.

For a' sae sage he looks, what can the laddie ken ?
He's thinkin' upon naething, like mony mighty men ;
A wee thing mak's us think, a sma' thing mak's us stare,
There are mair folks than him biggin' castles in the air.

Sic a nicht in winter may weel mak' him cauld;
His chin upon his buffy hands will soon mak' him auld
His brow is brent sae braid, oh, pray that Daddy Care
Wad let the wean alane wi' his castles in the air.

He'll glower at the fire, and he'll keck at the light;
But mony sparkling stars are swallow'd up by night;
Aulder een than his are glamour'd by a glare,
Hearts are broken-heads are turn'd-wi' castle in the air.
CREEP AFORE YE GANG.

Creep awa', my bairnie, creep afore ye gang;
Cock ye baith your lugs to your auld grannie's sang;
Gin ye gang as far ye will think the road lang,
Creep awa', my bairnie-creep afore ye gang.

Creep awa', my bairnie, ye're ower young to learn
To tot up and down yet, my bonnie wee bairn :
Better creepin' cannie than fa'in' wi' a bang,
Duntin' a' your wee brow-creep afore ye gang.

Ye'll creep, an' ye'll laugh, an' ye'll nod to your mither,
Watchin' ilka step o' your wee dousy brither;
Rest ye on the floor till your wee limbs grow strang,
An' ye'll be a braw chiel' yet-creep afore ye gang.

The wee birdie fa's when it tries ower soon to flee;
Folks are sure to tumble when they climb ower hie;
They wha dinna walk right are sure to come to wrang-
Creep awa', my bairnie-creep afore ye gang.

ILKA BLADE O' GRASS KEPS ITS AIN DRAP O' DEW.

Confide ye aye in Providence, for Providence is kind,
An' bear ye a' life's changes wi' a calm an' tranquil mind;
Though press'd an' hemm'd on every side, ha'e faith an' ye'll
win through,

For ilka blade o' grass keps its ain drap o' dew.

Gin reft frae friends, or cross'd in love, as whiles nae doot ye've been,

Grief lies deep-hidden in your heart, or tears flow frae your

een,

Believe it for the best, and trow there's good in store for you,
For ilka blade o' grass keps its ain drap o' dew.

In lang, lang days o' simmer when the clear an' cludless sky
Refuses ae wee drap o' rain to Nature parch'd and dry,
The genial night, wi' balmy breath, gars verdure spring anew,
An' ilka blade o' grass keps its ain drap o' dew.

Sae lest 'mid fortune's sunshine we should feel ower proud an' hie,

An' in our pride forget to wipe the tear frae poortith's ee, Some wee dark cluds o' sorrow come, we ken na whence or hoo,

But ilka blade o' grass keps its ain drap o' dew.

THE SNAWY KIRKYARD.

A' Nature lay dead, save the cauld whistlin blast
That chilled the bleak earth to the core as it passsed,
And heaved in high ridges the thick chokin' drift
That cam' in wreathed swirls frae the white marled lift,
And winter's wild war, wearied baith heart and e'e,
As we warsled richt sair owre the drear muirland lea,
And our feet skyted back on the road freezing hard,
As we wended our way to the Snawy Kirkyard.

O! snelly the hail smote the skeleton trees
That shivering shrunk in the grasp o' the breeze,
Nor birdie, nor beast could the watery e'e scan,
A' were cowerin' in corners, save grief-laden man ;
Tho' the heart may be broken, the best maun be spared
To mak' up a wreath in the Snawy Kirkyard.

The wee Muirland Kirk, whar the pure Word o' God
Mak's warm the cauld heart, and mak's light the lang road,
The slee hill-side yill-house, whaur lasses meet lads,
Whaur herds leave their collies, and lairds tie their yauds,
Kirk-bell and house riggin', the white drift has squared,
But there's ae yawning grave in the Snawy Kirkyard.

Through a' the hale parish, nae Elder was known
That was likit by a' like my grandfather John,
And drear was I that day when we bore him awa',
Wi' his gowd stores o' thought, and his haffits o' snaw,
I was then a wee callant, rose-cheek'd and gowd-hair'd,
When I laid his auld pow in the Snawy Kirkyard.

And aye when I think on the times lang gane by,
Saft thoughts soothe my soul, and sweet tears dim my eye,
And I see the auld man, as he clapp'd my wee head,
While a sigh heaved his breast, for my faither lang dead.
He nursed me, he schooled me,-how can I regard
But wi' warm-gushing heart-tears, a Snawy Kirkyard.

In soothing sad sorrow, in calming mad mirth,

His breath, like the south wind, strewed balm on the earth, And weary souls laden wi' grief aft were driven

To seek comfort frae him, wha aye led them to Heaven.
O! sweet were the seeds sown, and rich was the braird
That sprang frae that stock in the Snawy Kirkyard.

Now age wi' his hoar-frost has crispit my pow,
And my locks, ance sae gowden, are silvery now,
And tho' I hae neither high station nor power,

I hae health for my portion. and truth for my dower,
And my hand hath been open, my heart hath been free,
To dry up the teardraps frae sorrow's dull e'e,

And mony puir bodies my awmrie hae shared,
'Twas my counsel frae him in the Snawy Kirkyard.

A SONG TO HIS MOTHER.

Mine ain wee mensefu', mindfu' minny,
Sae couthy, kindly, cosh, an' canny;

Just sit ye still a wee, an' dinna

Tent your ain callant,

Until he sketch your picture in a

Wee hamely ballant.