passages of much descriptive beauty. Take this for instance, regarding a rejected lover on his road home:

The east win' blew, wi' hailstanes keen ;
The lightning gleamed the blasts between :
His road lay ower a dreary moor,

And by a castle's haunted tower,
Whar howlets screamed wi' eerie din,
Till vaults re-echoed a' within.

The spate spewed ower ilk burn and sleugh,
The toad screamt eldrich frae the cleugh,
The Dee spread wide his darkened waves,
And roared amang his rocky caves;
The moon and stars their light withdrew
And hid their heads frae human view,
As daunderin' slow he stalked his lane,
A' wearied, wan, and wae-begane.
His fondest fairy dreams were fled-
He sighed an' wished him wi' the dead.

With a better education, and a more careful moral training (for he was left to himself and to his own resources at the early age of fourteen), the native genius of the man would certainly have given him a high place among the poets of the century. Nicholson's love of the country, and his poetic aptitude for describing it, are seen in the following portion of a poem on

RURAL RETIREMENT.

O rural life, O, blest retreat,

Where sweet contentment dwells aye;
To me ye're dearer than the street,
Where din and discord yell aye.

Where countless wretches are immured,
In fell disease and starvin';
And thrivin' knaves, to guilt inured,
Frae virtue's paths are swervin'.

Right dear to me are glens and howes

Wi' craigs aboon me towerin',

While burns come tumblin' frae the knowes,
And owre the linns are pourin'.

The sun blinks blythly on the pool,

That bickers to his glances;

There water-clocks untaught by rule,

Skip through their countra dances.

The sturdy aik aboon the brow,
Supports the feeble ivy ;

See how it twines wi' mony a bow,
Just as it were alive aye.

The bloomin' broom, the hawthorn white,
That scent the caller mornin';

And wild flowers that the heart delight The banks and braes adornin'.

Yet still the bonniest flower's unsung
O' a' creation's plantin';

For thee has mony a harp been strung,
And ilka heart been pantin';
But if the precious dew o' sense
Bedeckt, it shows the sweeter;
Foster'd by mirthfu' modest mense,
It mak's the gift completer.

Leeze me on e'en, when hill and tree
Are pictured in the valleys;
When lasses to the loan do hie,

To milk and feed their mailies;
While sweet an' lang they lilt the sang,
As lads come frae the mawin',
Wha pree their mous ere it be lang
In corner till the daw'in'.

Now e'enin' star, to lovers dear,
Beams on the purple west;
Wi' modest beauties saft and clear,
Like Peggy's spotless breast.
The moon like ony buskëd bride,
In silver grey was glancin',
And on the restless rockin' tide
Her lightsome locks were dancin',

But sure contentment lives, hersel',
Beneath yon braw clay biggin',
Weel theekit frae the heathery fell,
While brackens crown the riggin'.
The honeysuckles speel the roof,
And fous adorn the gavel;
The frien❜ly firs, they keep it noof,
Frae Boreas' bauldest devel.

Here auld folks live wi' bairns' bairns,
And blest wi' peace and plenty;
Here parents' hope the bosom warms,
Here youth blooms fair and dainty;
Here dwell the mither's virtuous smiles,
The faithfu' friend and father;
Unlike those skilled in city wiles,
That aften slip the tether.

What though they hae nae opera joys,
Or carriage gay to flaunt in;
Or dainty that the stomach cloys,
They never ken the want 'em.
Their hamespun grey, and halesome fare,
Mak' life as sweet's the gentry's;
And what they hae, they freely share,
Nor heed they learn'd comment'ries.

Unknown to them the borrow'd glance,
To smile when sorrows twine them;
Or a' the mummeries come frae France,
Few spleens or vapours pine them.
Their life is like yon toddlin' burn ;
Though cross craigs whiles may stint it,
Still presses through ilk thrawart turn,
And never looks behint it.

My wearied limbs I'd here repose,

And woo the muses roun' me;

There mark the briar that bears the rose,
While laverocks soar aboon me.
Here, far frae busy bustlin' strife,
I'd tend life's latest ember;

Unteased by feigned friends, or wife,
That wauken care and clamour.

THE BANKS OF TARF.

Where windin' Tarf, by broomy knowes,
Wi' siller waves to saut sea rows;
And mony a green wood cluster grows,
And harebells bloomin' bonnie, O.

Beneath a spreadin' hazle lee,

Fu' snugly hid where nane could see,
While blinkin' love beamed frae her e'e,
I met my bonnie Annie, O.

Her neck was o' the snawdrap hue,
Her lips like roses wet wi' dew;
But oh! her e'e o' azure blue,

Was past expression bonnie, O.
Like threads o' gowd her flowin' hair,
That lightly wantoned in the air;
But vain were a' my rhymin' ware

To tell the charms o' Annie, O.

While smilin' in my arms she lay, She whisperin', in my ear did say, "Oh! how could I survive the day,

Should you prove fause my Tammie, O?"

"While spangled fish glide to the main,
While Scotlan's braes shall wave wi' grain
Till this fond heart shall break wi' pain,
I'll aye be true to Annie, O."

The Beltan winds blew loud and lang,
And ripplin' raised the spray alang;
We cheerfu' sat and cheerfu sang,

"The banks o' Tarf are bonnie, O."
Though sweet is spring, when young and gay,
And blythe the blinks o' summer day;
I fear nae winter cauld and blae,

If blest wi' love and Annie, O.

THE BRAES OF GALLOWAY.

Oh! Lassie wilt thou gang wi' me,
And leave thy frien's ' south countrie-
Thy former frien's and sweethearts a',
And gang wi' me to Gallowa'?

Oh! Gallowa' braes they wave wi' broom,
And heather-bells in bonnie bloom;
There's lordly seats and livin's braw
Amang the braes o' Gallowa

There's stately woods on mony a brae,
Where burns and birds in concert play;
The waukrife echo answers a'
Amang the braes o' Gallowa'.

Oh! Gallowa' braes, etc.

The simmer shiel I'll build for thee,
Alang the bonnie banks o' Dee,
Half circlin' roun' my father's ha'
Amang the braes o' Gallowa'.

Oh! Gallowa' braes, etc.

When autumn waves her flowin' horn,
And fields o' gowden grain are shorn,
I'll busk thee fine in pearlins braw,
To join the dance in Gallowa'.
Oh! Gallowa' braes, etc.

At e'en, when darkness shrouds the sight
And lanely langsome is the night,

Wi' tentie care my pipes I'll thraw,

Play "A' the way to Gallowa'."

Oh! Gallowa' braes, etc.

Should fickle fortune on us frown,
Nae lack o' gear our love should drown;
Content should shield our haddin' sma',
Amang the braes o' Gallowa'.

Come, while the blossom's on the broom,
And heather-bells sae bonnie bloom;
Come, let us be the happiest twa
On a' the braes o' Gallowa'.

THOMAS WATTS.

'HE minstrels of the Scottish Borders are undoubtedly much fewer in number now than they were in the past; and with the death, in 1870, of the Rev. Henry Scott Riddell, many said that we had witnessed the last of the Border bards. In a certain sense this was true, for he was the last of those poets who linked us to the past, and most worthily connected our own time with such lofty sons of song as Sir Walter Scott, the Ettrick Shepherd, Thomas Pringle, and Dr John Leyden. It could not be, however, that the beauty of the Borderland, and its numberless romantic and soul-stirring historical and traditional associations, should ever fail to inspire her most gifted sons to sing.

Thomas Watts is truly a Border minstrel, although Ireland has the honour of his birth. His father was a non-commissioned officer in the Royal Marine Artillery, and fought under Sir Charles Napier on the Syrian and Egyptian coasts, in 1840, when Ibraham Pacha, "the terrible bull-dog of the east," was not only attempting to throw off the yoke of the Sultan of Turkey, but was even menacing Constantinople itself. It was after this war, in 1845, and while the regiment was lying in Wexford barracks, that our bard was born.

Having been put to a school taught by a pedagogue who could not feel for the delicately fine nervous temperament of the lad, he made very slow progress,