Last night the gifted seer did view A wet shroud swathed round ladye gay; ""Tis not because Lord Lindesay's heir ""Tis not because the ring they ride, O'er Roslin all that dreary night A wondrous blaze was seen to gleam; "Twas broader than the watchfire light, And redder than the bright moonbeam. It glared on Roslin's castled rock, It ruddied all the copsewood glen; Seem'd all on fire that chapel proud, Seem'd all on fire within, around, And glimmer'd all the dead men's mail. Blazed battlement and pinnet high, Blazed every rose-carved buttress fair- There are twenty of Roslin's barons bold And each St Clair was buried there With candle, with book, and with knell ; But the sea-caves rung, and the wild winds sung, The dirge of lovely Rosabelle. WHEN a'ither bairnies are hush'd to their hame Aneath his cauld brow siccan dreams hover there, The sister who sang o'er his saftly rock'd bed, Oh! speak him na harshly-he trembles the while, LINES TO A MOUSE. ROBERT BURNS. Robert Burns was born January 25, 1759, in a clay-built cottage, raised by his father's own hands, on the banks of the Doon, in the district of Kyle, Ayrshire. At the age of six he was sent to school, and appears to have been a diligent little student. At an early age he assisted his father in his farming business, continuing his education at intervals. When about twenty, he composed several of the poems which afterwards distinguished his name. After various domestic trials, when on the point of leaving England for Jamaica, where he had got a situation, the publication of his poems awakened so much interest in their author, that he abandoned his purpose, and after an unsuccessful experiment in farming, obtained an appointment in the Excise. He died at Dumfries, in the year 1799, at the early age of 37 years. Sleekit--sleek. Beastie little beast. The termina- Daimen icker an ear of corn oc- Wee bit housie-little bit of a house. Wa's-walls. Win's-winds. The final conson- Hald-abiding place, home. WEE, sleekit, cowerin', timorous beastie, I'm truly sorry man's dominion Which maks thee startle I doubt na' whyles but thou may thieve; 'S a sma' request; I'll get a blessing wi' the lave, Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin! An' bleak December's winds ensuin', Thou saw the fields laid bare an' waste, An' cozie here, beneath the blast, Thou thought to dwell, Till crash! the cruel coulter pass'd Out-thro' thy cell. That wee bit heap o' leaves an' stibble, To thole the winter's sleety dribble But, Mousie, thou art no' thy lane, An' lea'e us nought but grief and pain, Still thou art blest, compared wi' me! An' forward, tho' I canna see, 1. What was the occasion of these beautiful lines? 2. What does the poet call himself in verse second? 3. Show me that this is correct in one sense and not in another? 4. At what season of the year did this incident take place? 5. Why was there the more pity of the mouse on this account? 6. Who often fail in their plans as well as the poor mouse? 7. On what grounds did the bard call the mouse blest, compared with him? 8. What makes us dread to look into futurity? THE COTTER'S SATURDAY NIGHT. ROBERT BURNS. The following remarks are by Dr Currie, the early biographer of Burns:-"The Cottar's Saturday Night is tender and moral, solemn and devotional, and rises at length into a strain of grandeur and sublimity which modern poetry has not surpassed. The noble sentiments of patriotism with which it concludes correspond with the rest of the poem. In no age or country have the pastoral muses breathed such elevated accents, if the Messiah of Pope be excepted, which is indeed a pastoral in form only." Sugh the continued rushing noise | Halesome-healthful, wholesome. of wind or water. Stacher-stagger. Belyve-by and by. Gars-makes. Claes-clothes. Eydent-diligent. Hawkie-cow. Hallan-a particular partition wall Weel hain'd-well-spared. Kebbuck-cheese. Towmond-twelvemonth. Sin' lint was the bell-since the flax was in flower. Big ha' Bible-the great Bible that Lyart haffets-gray temples. Beets-adds fuel to fire. NOVEMBER chill blaws loud wi' angry sugh; The short'ning winter day is near a close; The toil-worn Cotter frae his labour goes, And weary, o'er the moor, his course does hameward bend. At length his lonely cot appears in view, Beneath the shelter of an aged tree; Th' expectant wee-things, toddlin', stacher through His wee bit ingle blinkin' bonnily, His clean hearth-stane, his thriftie wifie's smile, The lisping infant prattling on his knee, Does a' his weary carking cares beguile, An' makes him quite forget his labour an' his toil. Their eldest hope, their Jenny, woman grown, To help her parents dear, if they in hardship be. An' each for other's welfare kindly speirs: Gars auld claes look amaist as weel's the new; Their maister's an' their mistress's command, An' mind your duty, duly, morn an' night! Implore His counsel and assisting might: They never sought in vain that sought the Lord aright!” But now the supper crowns their simple board, The halesome parritch, chief o' Scotia's food: The soupe their only hawkie does afford, That 'yont the hallan snugly chows her cood; The dame brings forth in complimental mood, To grace the lad, her weel-hain'd kebbuck, fell, An' aft he's prest, an' aft he ca's it guid; |