"The History and Poetry of the Scottish Border was published in 1878. It is a work of the greatest research, and throws light on the history and the literature of our country. The subject is treated with intense feeling Vivid historical delineations, and interesting biographic sketches, together with as much of the poetry peculiar to the Borderland is presented so as to enable the reader to follow with deep interest its life of the past, and to feel the spirit of its song. Professor Veitch tells us that he has "sought mainly to trace the outline of Border history, to give in the order of development its salient characteristics, and to show how these, in connection with the scenery of the district have issued in its rich and stirring ballad and song." This he does in chapters on the semi-historic period (Arthur and the Arthurian Legends); the early history of the Lowlands, the War of Independence, Thomas the Rhymour and the early romantic school of poetry, the older poems descriptive of social manners, on the influence of the scenery, the poetry of the eighteenth century, and the modern period, including sketches and critical estimates of, and selections from, Leyden, Hogg, Scott, and recent poets. In a notice of "The Tweed, and other Poems," the Quarterly Review stated that he "combines two qualities seldom united in such measure-the reflectiveness, meditative depth, and dreamful interest for nature, which we identify with the name of Wordsworth, and the vivid sympathy for human character, especially as embodied in active and daring deed, which suggests the name of Sir Walter Scott." It is unnecessary to add anything to this high eulogium. He ever shows the thoughtful mind and those spontaneous felicities of language which distinguish the poet of natural power from the man of mere cultivation.

OLD BORDER LIFE AND POETRY.

Then let us lingering pause a moment brief
Upon the dim fast-fading lineaments
Of days of olden story,-catch the look
And soul of those who lived in these grey towers,
Who of a morning saw the sun and sky,

Trod the same haughs and hills, saw river gleam,
And felt the seasons' flow, through centuries
Now gone, -as we, heirs too unconscious all
Of their experience, not thinking how
The past flows through the present, how the life
We live is tissue woven from the years
That were, by that dread power within the will.

Theirs was a life born of the heaven's pure air,
And nourished into strength by mountain breeze,
By sunshine and by storm; theirs force of arm,
And theirs the courage of long-during breath,
Won from the broad hills they free-breasted trod :
A growth spontaneous as the rugged pine,
That, under open sky, unsheltered draws
Its spirit from the blast; and they had hearts
That moved impulsive with the swelling wind,
Among the hills, or through the roaring wood,
Or when it tore and shook their banner stretched
For action bold and daring enterprize.

The sons of men who won them fair estates,
In troubled marge 'twixt English, Scottish rule,—
The trophies of the spear, or purchase free
Of bow and arrow,--won and held from foe

That ever pressed from southwards on their homes.
No marvel that they felt rude power to be
The highest law, and strength the last appeal,
And spurned the feudal claims of all the Kings
In Christenty; themselves deemed rightful Kings,
But not by secondary parchment writ,

By force of arm and custom of the sword.

As 'neath the open sky their life grew strong,
So from the breeze they snatched air melody,
That tuned their strength to beauty and to joy;
Sweet sounds they knew of soft pathetic tone,
As simple airs of heaven, spontaneous piped
By pastoral reed,-a wail for absent love,
Low 'mid the broom at eve on Cowdenknowes,
Or deep pure passion's pleading tone in vain,
Beneath the birken Bush aboon Traquair ;'
And sometimes into low voiced wail 'twould swell
As, born of nightly soughing of the burns,

Or plaintive midnight wind around lone tower,
The note told, o'er and o'er, in lingering strain
The dule of Flodden's dire disastrous day.
Yet prompt their spirits rose, when bugle horn,
Like rush of storm down trumpet-throated glen,
Pealed loud and long the thrilling call to war.

All this old life of centuries is gone,
And we regard it not: new men, new things
Are with us; blood and breed of olden knights
Are rare among us; their bright sun is set,

Their towers are roofless, bare; gaunt, grim walls given
To winds, dank weeds, and hooting owls by night.
We dread their rule no more, their powers of life
And death, of pit and vaulted donjon-keep;
And children play upon the gallows' mound,
And sit 'neath shadow of the tree of doom.

'Tis well that o'er the present happy look
Of vale and stream, a shadow from the past
Is cast, as of a faded name to call

To mind old history. Oft where the stream

Bends round green knowe, beneath the alder boughs,
There stands the crumbling peel, deserted, lone,
Save for its brotherhood of ancient trees,

Few, straggling, wasted by long tides of storm,
Yet faithful still in their companionship
With relic of the past, the broken home,
Left by the careless years to sure decay.

Think, once in these old towers what feelings wrought-
Their bridal joy, and children's sunny smiles,
A mother's hopes and fears, a father's cares,
And all strong thrillings of this life have been,-
Home-welcome flashed to victor from old wars,
Dead burden borne from fatal feud o' night;
Ay such that 'tis a marvel this dull earth
Should lie so callous 'neath the memories,
Unless it be that surely in its breast
It keeps them latent for the final morn.

Can we once marvel, that, with deeds like these,
The muse that broods amid the hills was stirred
To verse heroic, tender, human, true,-

And oft heart-fired by strains of old romance?
Unknown to fame she was, nor heeded phrase
Conventional that charmed a worldly crowd
That never felt the simple modes of life,
And never looked pure Nature in the face;
As Queen she ruled within the Border Land,
In Teviot's uplands wild; 'mid lonely glens

Where Ettrick creeps; by Yarrow's pure green holms
That pleased and silent list the lively strain,
As loch-born waters leap from calm to sound,
And joyous flash by many a bonny knowe;
Yet gathers sadness towards evening tide,
As gloamin' shadows o'er the Dowie Dens.

She spoke from simple heart to simple faith
And fervour, with a voice as of the soul
Of acts that thrilled the time; a pure response
It was, no hue of personal colour blent,
Or trick of art, or ornament save what
Unconscious flashed upon the narrative,
Austere, of pictured deeds, yet marred it not;
The shallow stream doth mingle with the scene
It shows its own poor pebbles; nobler lake
In eyes of calm and depth profound has power
To mirror for us every feature fair

Of the o'ershadowing earth and sky it feels,
In purest picturing; its sparkle clear
But lights, not breaks, the perfect imagery

THE HERD'S WIFE.

In a lone Herd's house, far up i' the Hope,
By the hill with the winter cairn,
She paced the floor i' the peat-fire glow,
In her arms she clasped her bairn!

Out in the night the snow storm's might
Tore wild around the door ;

"Oh! waes me for my ain gudeman,
Up on that weary moor!

"I canna bide that gruesome sough,
And swirl of blindin' drift;
There's no a star in a' the sky,

Nor a glint o' moon i' the lift!

"Has the crook o' my lot then come sae soon
On our gleesome wedding-day?

Wi' the ae bloom o' the heather braes
Is my blessing sped away?

"O! bonnie a' through was our year,
Frae Spring to the Lammas-tide;
There was joy in the e'e blinks o' morn,
Was I wrang in wishin 'twad bide?

"But little thocht I that the hay,

Deep ower the haugh and the lea,

Our first crop he sae blithely mawed,-
Was the last we thegether wad see!

"Have I loved him ower muckle, O Lord,
Thocht mair o' his smile than o' Thine?
Oh! on earth I had nane but himsel’-
To be my sweet bairnie's and mine!"

She paced up and down, the bairn in her grip,
That knew not her sore unrest;

And aye about it her arms she clasped,
Pressed it, how close, to her breast!

High on the blast rose a piteous whine;
She thrilled as 'tween hope and fear,
'Twas the pleading wail of faithful Help,
But alone,- -no Master there!

No warm hearth seeks the old dog to-night-
His face is set to the storm,-
He's come from where his master lies,-
He'll guide to the snow-numbed form!

One tender look has the wife for Help,
A tear-eyed glance for her child;
Out will she 'mid the fearsome night,
For him that lies on the wild.

With milk in vial, her sole resource,
Laid in the warmth of her breast,-
She and Help 'gainst the 'wildering snow,
To her God she leaves the rest!

Fearless she faced the gruesome sough,
And swirl of blindin' drift,
There was no a star in a' the sky,
Or a glint o' moon i' the lift!

Bareheaded slept he 'neath the mound,
Where the wreath was o'er him laid,
There in the folds of the winding snow,
Help found him wrapt in his plaid !

Oh! how she clasped him there, and poured
Life-warmth through the chilled frame,
Heaven tender looked on her wifely love,
He breathed and blessed her name !