But whence the first heat gin ye ken,
And what syne cooled it doon, Sir?
Gude fegs! 'twas still and cauldrife then,
Before the Sun and Moon, Sir.-

Noo! dinna cock your head sae hie,
Janet, Janet,

There's forces that we cannot see,
My Jo Janet.

Then where did seeds o' trees come frae,
The gorbies 'mang the heather, Sir,
The lammies on the sunny brae,

An' the first wee bairnie's mither, Sir?
Affinity draws like to like,

Janet, Janet,

As lads to lasses loup the dyke,
My Jo Janet.

Ah! Tyndal, tak' a thocht an' mend,
Before ye come to dee, Sir,

In case that at your latter end,
The Deil's the ane ye'll see, Sir!
No fear o' that, I do no wrong,
Janet, Janet,

An' gin some Power my life prolong,
I'll be wi' my Jo Janet!

THE CAGED BIRD.

When spring in all its glory comes

I yield my sweetest lay,

That some kind Power might burst my bars

And let me fly away

For God now calls me to the grove,

The sweet days to prolong;

Yet my dull Jailor ever deems
I sing to him my song!

In fancy oft I join the choir,

That flits among the trees,-
Or listen to the joyful notes
That float upon the breeze.
Again I see our cozy home,
Beside the waterfall,

The moss-grown rocks, the huge old trees
That overhangeth all.

Our tender offspring stretch their necks

Up from their downy nest,

Which makes me struggle in my cell,
With anguish in my breast;

Yet while I dash against the bars,
And stronger notes employ,
My Jailor's little selfish mind
Admires my "rising joy."

Once more I see the lively brood,
Their untaught wings prepare;
And eyeing well the nearest twig,
Pass gently through the air,
When, from the nest, my mate and I
Soon chirp them back again,
My Jailor deems me happy now,
While fancy ends in pain.

Thus in my solitary cell

I fret away the hours,

For vain man thinks for him alone,
Fair Nature gives her powers.
To him my language is unknown,
But Death shall be iny friend,
And when my last sweet song is sung
Man's "love" shall mourn my end!

THE WANDERER.

The bards of Nature cease their songs,
The vales rejoice no more,

A world is sleeping o'er the wrongs
That gnaw it to the core;
Yet, as if wakeful spirits passed,
A moaning river fills the blast.

Dash on thou nursling of the hills,
Rave on from stone to stone,
The writhing of a thousand rills,
Is in that form alone;

Who wanders by thy lonely stream
Of God and far-off worlds to dream.

The vile Seducer came,-she fell,-
Her race is now her foe,—

But do not think she would compel
Thy waves to hide her woe;
For though she from her fellows fly,
She dreads an angry Father's eye.

O'er stranger-vales she wends her way,
From stranger-hand is fed;

While ah! the red-robed king of day
Sneers at her crust of bread;

And bids her weep and tell her tale,

Where friendship shields the northern gale.

Borne like a withered autumn leaf

On every blast that blows;

The poor wretch wanders for relief
To where the torrent flows,

And where the stars of gentle beam,

Bend down and kiss the babbling stream.

Her bosom heaves a gentle sigh,
To bid these scenes farewell;
Yet pale Hope, dove-like, soars the sky,
And longs with God to dwell:

For from Earth's friendship rudely riven,
Her soul would rest its wings in Heaven.

O God! come to Thy outer gates,
When all the star-lights burn,
For there Thy erring Daughter waits
Till night to sunshine turn,

And call her from this world of tears,
Up to Thy everlasting spheres.

Strange music floats along the skies,
The trembling stars have fled;
The feelings of her heart arise

Like children from the dead;
Her soul hath burst its mortal bars,
And singing sweeps the path of stars.

MRS LOGIE-ROBERTSON,

WHOSE maiden name is Janet Simpson, is the

daughter of a respected Edinburgh lawyer. Though only in her twenty-second year she has already taken a place in the arena of letters. She was born, in 1860, in the quaint old fishing town of Pittenweem. On the maternal side she can claim kindred with the celebrated preacher, Dr Chalmers, whose birthplace, Anstruther, is only about a mile east the Fife coast from Pittenweem. She was educated at the Edinburgh Educational Institution. Her curriculum there was a series of brilliant successes, and at its conclusion she carried off the gold medal awarded by the Merchant Company of Edinburgh to the Dux of the College. The College at that time numbered considerably over a thousand students.

About the same time she achieved, at Edinburgh University Local Examinations, the double distinction of prizes and a Certificate of the First Order.

Her first literary efforts were for the amusement of the domestic circle, and took the form of little dramas, which were enacted before juvenile audiences by the younger members of the family. The first of these to be printed is a dramatic rendering of the nursery tale, "Little Red Ridinghood." It was noticed very favourably by the press, and is now no longer to be had. Her next publication was in the same direction, the subject being "Cinderella," and the publisher Mr J. Murray, Queen Street, Edinburgh. The title-page fitly describes this production as "A Parlour Pantomime.” It was favourably reviewed the Scotsman being especially emphatic in its praise. It is embellished by several comic illustrations, and, we understand, is still on sale.

Our authoress's next effort was in a totally new direction-away from the department of the comic drama to what may be described as the department of lyrical character-sketching. The little book, a marvel of neatness and sweetness, externally and internally too, bears the very significant title of "Blossoms: A Series of Child-Portraits." There are, in all, twenty-five of these "Child-Blossoms; and we can sincerely endorse the judgment of one critic of the little book who wrote "There is not one which is not a little gem." They might, indeed, be studies from the life in their utter truthfulness to child-nature. In addition to this commendable quality-the first requisite in any writer who would touch the heart, as it is an indispensable proof of genius-there is an unobtrusive, straightforward simplicity of diction, as well as an artistic neatness of form, which the writer, probably instinctively, but inimitably adapts to the subject she has in hand. Our poetess was married in 188 1to Mr Logie-Robertson, the subject of our next sketch.

Let us now open the door-we have lingered long enough with our hand on the handle-and take as a specimen of the fair authoress' handicraft the following stanzas from "Marion and Willie." They have just discovered the first "gowan" of spring.

"How strange to see a snowflake grow!"
Cries Willie, wondering:

But nought says Marion, bending low

To touch the tiny thing.

With tender hand, and reverent,

She parts the pearly leaves;

While to her eyes new light is lent,
And joy her bosom heaves.

The boy's first wonder past, he too
Will handle this new toy :
Unmeaning rude, unused to woo,
His heedles hands destroy.

"O Willie, you have killed the Spring!"
With answering grief he hears-

O'er the dead daisy lingering,

Both children are in tears.

JOANNA.

Joanna with her dainty tread
Comes tripping down the alley;
Amid the trees she hides her head-
Our Lily of the Valley!

For sweet, and pale, and pure is she,
This bashful little lady;

And loves in Spring-clad woods to be,
And quiet nooks and shady.

The way is all of sombre hue,

Untouched by Sol's bright finger-
The sunlight from the scene withdrew
Within her eyes to linger !

Her soft dark locks are braided trim-
The fresh breeze, violet-scented,
Deems them a plaything kept from him,
And will not be contented.

Joanna with the gentle air

And shy and modest graces,

-You cannot tell how passing fair
And comforting your face is.
Then keep it pure and tranquil still,
Whatever path you follow;
Be happy-hearted on the hill,
Contented in the hollow!