"Come here," he cried, "my bonnie hen,
Come back, and list to what I say ;
I hae a but, I own a ben,

And sheep and kye on mony a brae."

"And fat the beasts, and rich the lan',
And bienly plenished is yon ha'."
"Gae hame and woo them, daft auld man ! "
The lassie cried, and ran awa'.

O sairly flate the carle syne,

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And aften stamped he on the grun';
My richest acres I would tine,

To gar the limmer rue her fun."

"The souple jaud, to ca' me auld,
And scarce a grey hair i' my beard!
Ay, faith, she'll rue, ere she be cauld,
She didna tak the siller laird."

Wi' temper brittle as a slate,

And face that ony calf might spane,

He had to gang a mile agate,

For he couldna loup the burn again!

CHARLES BALFOUR,

REFERRED to at page 170 of second series, as

coming of a poetic family, was born in 1819, at Panmure, near Carnoustie. At the village school he received a very limited education, and was early engaged as "a farmer's boy." However, in after years he made up for this, and took a great delight in reading-never, as he tells us, being without Burns' poems, or some other volume, in his pocket for perusal in his spare moments. Not liking farm work, he was apprenticed to a brewer, but as the master drank as well as brewed, the business came to an end before the apprenticeship, and our poet got employment in a factory in Dundee, where he was soon appointed foreman. His health failing him, he en

listed in the Cameron Highlanders, commanded by Colonel Lauderdale Maule, brother of the late Fox Maule, Earl of Dalhousie. He had become a total abstainer, and his good conduct and habits soon earned his promotion. He was appointed "orderly " to the General Commanding, and having only about half a day's duty in the two days, he found abundant time for self improvement, which he eagerly availed himself of. Having a knowledge of baking and brewing, he was set over the officers' mess department, and soon saved money sufficient to purchase his discharge the Colonel reluctantly parting with him, and giving him a warm letter of commendation to his noble brother at Brechin Castle. Receiving an appointment in the railway service as parcel deliverer in Dundee, he was rapidly promoted to good's guard, and then passenger guard. In 1852, when the train was thrown over the lofty bridge which crosses Invergowrie Quarry, he went down with it, sustaining such fearful injuries that for months he lay in Dundee Infirmary, life trembling in the balance. Being no longer fitted for the duties of a guard he was appointed stationmaster at Glencarse, near Perth, where he still remains, greatly respected for his intelligence and kindly manners.

Although the love of song seemed inherent in him, Mr Balfour only began to compose when in the army, and for forty years he has been an occasional contributor to the press- numbers of his poetic sketches of Scottish life and character finding their way into the American and other papers-"Habbie Simpson and his Wife," "The Minister Praying for the Cuddy, "The Dry Sermon," &c., having been long widely and favourably known. The late Dean Ramsay for many years corresponded with Mr Balfour, and greatly admired his fine humour. He presents us with admirable portraits of actual existence, rather than transports us into imaginary worlds, while tender and pathetic touches of Nature and good feel

ing, pervade his songs. We can now only give a brief outline of one character, and should remark that some years ago, we regret to learn, when the Glencarse Station was burned down during the night, he lost all his papers, and almost all record of his early work was thus destroyed.

HABBIE SIMPSON; OR AN AULD FRIEND WI' A NEW FACE.

Habbie Simpson and his wife

They lived a weirdless, drucken life;
For on a' occasions, sad or cheerie,
Baith managed to get unco beerie.
A'e mornin' after a carouse

Hab waukened Janet frae a snoose,
Sayin', "Jenny, lass, I'm dredfu' ill;
Cud ye no get me half a gill?”
Deed, Hab, ye ken as weel as me,
There's no atween's a broon bawbee;
An' as for gettin't upon tick,

That's useless; nane will gie's a lick ;
So just lie still, my daintie man,
An' thole awa' as weel's ye can."

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Quo' Hab, "ye're no that ill at plannin';
Come clear yer head o' that bit flannen,
An' let me hear what you propose.'
"A weel," quo Janet, here it goes,
I'll to the Laird o' Johnston gang;
He kens ye weel; he's kent ye lang.
I'll say ye're deid, an' maybe he

Will gi'e me something. What think ye?"
"First-rate," quo' Habbie, "aff ye gang,

An' see ye dinna bide ower lang."
Soon Janet reaches Johnston Place,
Wi' solemn step an' woeful face;
Rings, is admitted, meets the lady,
Who says, "Oh, Janet, here already.
Hoo's a' at hame? Is Habbie weel?"
"Poor Habbie's deid, atweel! atweel!"
"Poor Habbie deid, preserve me, Janet;
Just step inbye this way a minute.
Ye hadna been prepared for that."
"Prepared! I'm shure, no weel I wat :
There's no as muckle in the hoose
Wud feed a sparrow or a moose.
"Dear me ! dear me! but lat me see,

Ye'll want some sugar an' some tea,
Some biscuits an' some bread and cheese
"An' a wee drap spirits, if you please."
"Weel, spirits ye might do withoot it;
But sit ye doon; I'll see aboot it."

The lady very soon came back
Wi' a basket full as it could pack
Of various good things frae the city,
Likewise a little aquavitæ.

Soon Janet she leaves Johnston Place,
Wi' solemn step, but cheerful face;
She reaches hame, and in a blink
The table's spread wi' meat an' drink;
And baith, withoot a blessin' asket,
Attack the contents o' the basket.
At last, quo' Hab, "the bottle's dry,
Cud ye no get a fresh supply?"
"Na, na," quo' Janet, "time aboot;
Its I'll dee noo, an' ye'll turn oot,
Just try and do as weel as me,
An' then we'll ha'e anither spree."
Oot Habbie goes in desperation,
Withoot a'e plan of observation.

He scratched his head doon throo his bonnet,
Ashamed to be outdone by Janet ;

An' just as he the hill was muntin'

He met the laird straight frae the huntin',
"Guid e'enin' Hab; I'm glad to see ye;
But, guidsake, what's the matter wi' ye?
You look as dull an' hing your head,
As if your wife were lyin' dead."
Aye, laird, that's it; puir Janet's gane,
An' I'm left in the warld alane ;
An' hoo to get her i' the yird

I dinna ken, upon my wird.'

"Well, Hab, that's sad; but there's a croon, An' in the mornin' I'll come doon,

And see if I can mak' ye richt,"

"I thank ye, sir," quo' Hab, "guid nicht." Home Habbie goes, an' cries to Janet,

"Look here, gudewife-ne'er mind your bonnet ;

We ha'e nae time to fyke an' scutter ;

Look sharp, auldwife, an' fraught the cutter." The Laird o' Johnston he gaed hame,

And in the parlour meets his dame,

And says,

"Ye'll be surprised to hear

Your auld maid Janet's dead, my dear."

'Ha, Laird, yer wrang; its Hab that's gane;
Janet was here in grievous mane."

'No, no, my dear, it must be Janet;
I spak to Hab this very minute;
An', oh, he was so casten doon,
I pitied him, an' gae'm a croon.
But now I'll bet that Hab and she
Are baith as live as you or me.
I scarcely can refrain from lauchin';
Come get your things, we'll to the clachin.”
Hab an' his wife they sat fu' jolly,

Afar off care and melancholy;

But turning round as he was drinkin',
Something in Habbie's e'e cam blinkin',
"I say, gudewife, just look out there;
Noo isna' that a wiselike pair."
"As shure as I'm a livin' woman,

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It's baith the Laird an' Lady comin'.
What's to be done? Od, let me see:
Od, Hab, I doot we baith maun dee."
'Ah, weel," quo' Hab, "mind ye said it,"
And in an instant baith were beddit.
The Laird o' Johnston he cam in,
Wi' solemn step an' little din ;
He gazed upon the silent bed,
And quietly to his lady said,
"I see my dear we've baith been richt;
But, oh, this is a solemn sicht.
A solemn sicht; a man an' wife,
And baith at once bereft of life.
But I would give a croon to know
Who first did quit this scene of woe."

Up Habbie springs, as brisk's a miller,

Crying, "Laird, it was me; hand here the siller."

JAMES HEDDERWICK, LL.D.,

THE well-known journalist, was born in Glasgow

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in 1814. He is highly esteemed both as a literary man by the literati, and also by the masses for his strong good sense. His father, who was latterly Queen's printer in the city, had James early put to work at the case." His tastes, however, being more literary than mechanical, led to his being removed in his sixteenth year to the University of London, where he distinguished himself. He became sub-editor of the Scotsman by the time he was twenty-three. In 1842 he returned to Glasgow, and started the Citizen-a newspaper which soon held an influential and leading position, and is still represented in the Weekly Citizen, a journal exceedingly