His presence protect us!' quoth the auld gudeman;
What wad ye, whare won ye, by sea or by lan'?
I conjure ye-speak-by the beuk in my han'!'
What a grane gae Aiken-drum!

'I lived in a lan' where we saw nae sky,
I dwalt in a spot where a burn rins na by;
But I 'se dwall now wi' you if ye like to try-
Hae ye wark for Aiken-drum?

'I'll shiel a' your sheep i' the mornin' sune,
I'll berry your crap by the light o' the moon,
An' ba the bairns wi' an unkenned tune,
If ye'll keep puir Aiken-drum.

I'll loup the linn when ye canna wade,
I'll kirn the kirn, an' I'll turn the bread;
An' the wildest filly that ever rau rede,
I'se tame 't,' quoth Aiken-drum.

To wear the tod frae the flock on the fell,

To ather the dew frae the heather-bell,

An' to look at my face in your clear crystal well,
Might gie pleasure to Aiken-drum.

'I'se seek nae guids, gear, bond, nor mark
I use nae beddin,' shoon, nor sark;

But a cogfu' o' brose 'tween the light an' the dark,
Is the wage o' Aiken-drum."

Quoth the wylie auld wife; The thing speaks weel;
Our workers are scant-we hae ronth of meal;
Gif he'll do as he says-be he man, be he deil-
Wow! we'll try this Aiken-drum.'

But the wenches skirled: He's no be here!
His eldritch look gars us swarf wi' fear;
An' the feint a ane will the house come near,
If they think but o' Aiken-drum.'

'Pair clipmalabors! ye hae little wit;
Is'tna Hallowmas now, an' the crap out yet?'
Sae she silenced them a' wi' a stamp o' her fit-
'Sit yer wa's down, Aiken-drum.'

Roun' a' that side what wark was dune

By the streamer's gleam, or the glance o' the moon A word, or a wish, an' the brownie cam sune,

Sae helpfu' was Aiken-drum.

...

On Blednoch banks, an' on crystal Cree,

For mony a day a toiled wight was he;
While the bairns played harmless roun' his knee,
Sae social was Aiken-drum.

But a new-made wife, fu' o' rippish freaks,
Fond o' a' things feat for the first five weeks,
Laid a mouldy pair o' her ain man's breeks
By the brose o' Aiken-drum.

Let the learned decide when they convene,
What spell was him an' the breeks between;
For frae that day forth he was nae mair seen,
An' sair missed was Aiken-drum.

He was heard by a herd gaun by the Thrieve,
Crying: Lang, lang now may I greet an' grieve;
For, alas! I hae gotten baith fee an' leave
Oh, luckless Aiken-drum l'

Awa', ye wrangling sceptic tribe,

Wi' your pros an' your cons wad ye decide
Gain the 'sponsible voice o' a hail country-side,
On the facts 'bout Aiken-drum!

Though the Brownie o' Blednoch' lang be gane,
The mark o' his feet 's left on mony a stane;
An' mony a wife an' mony a wean

Tell the feats o' Aiken-drum.

E'en now, light loons that jibe an' sneer

At spiritual guests an' a' sic gear,

At the Glashnoch mill hae swat wi' fear,
An' looked roun' for Aiken-drum.

An' guidly folks hae gotten a fright,

When the moon was set, and the stars gied nae light,
At the roaring linn, in the howe o' the night,

Wi' sughs like Aiken-drum.

The Cameronian's Dream - By JAMES HISLOP.

James Hislop was born of humble parents in the parish of Kirkconnel, in the neighborhood of Sanquhar, near the source of the Nith, in July 1798. He was em ployed as a shepherd boy in the vicinity of Airdsmoss, where at the grave-stone of a party of slain Covenanters, he composed the following striking poem. He after wards became a teacher, and his po tical effusions having attracied the favorable notice of Lord Jeffrey and other eminent literary characters, he was, through their influence, appointed schoolmaster, firt on board the Doris, and subsequently the Tweed man-of-war. He died on the 4th December 1827, from fever caught by sleeping one night in the open air upon the island of St. Jugo. His compositions display an elegant rather than a vigorous imagination, much chasteness of thought, and a pure ardent love of nature."

In a dream of the night I was wafted away

To the mainland of inist where the martyrs lay;
Where Cameron's sword and his Bible are seen
Engraved on the stone where the heather grows green.
'Twas a dream of those ages of darkness and blood,
When the minister's home was the mountain and wood;
When in Wellwood's dark valley the standard of Zion,
All bloody and tora, 'mong the leather was lying.

"Twas morning; and summer's young sun from the east
Lay in loving repose on the green mountains breast;

On Wardlaw and Cairn table the clan shining dew

Glistened there 'mong the heath-bells and mountain flowers blue.

And far up in heaven, near the white sunny cloud,

The song of the lark was melodious and loud,

And in Glenmuir's wild solitude, lengthened and deep,

Were the whistling of plovers and bleating of sheep.

And Wellwood's sweet valleys breathed music and gladness

The fresh meadow blooms hung in beauty and redness:

Its daughters were happy to hail the returning,
And drink the delights of July's sweet morning.

Bat oh! there were hearts cherished far other feelings
Ilamed by the light of prophetic revealings,
Who drank from the scenery of beauty but sorrow,
For they knew that their blood would bedew it to-morrow.
"Twas the few faithful ones who with Cameron were lying,
Concealed 'mong the mist where the heath-fowl was crying,
For the horsen of Earishall around them were hovering,
And their bridie reins rung through the thin misty covering.
Their faces grew pale, and their swords were unsheathed,
But the vengeance that darkened their brows was unbreathed;
With eyes turned to heaven in calm resignation,
They sung their last song to the God of Salvation.

The hills with the deep mournful music were ringing
The curlew and plover in concert were singing;
But the melody died 'm:d derision and laughter,
As the host of ungodly rushed on to the slaughter.

Though in mist and in darkness and fire they were shrouded
Yet the souls of the righteous were calm and unclouded.
Their dark eyes flashed lightning, as, firm and unbending,
They stood like the rock which the thunder is rending.
The muskets were flashing, the blue swords were gleaming.
The helmets were cleft, and the red blood was streaming,
The heavens grew dark, and the thunder was rolling,
When in Wellwood's dark muirlands the mighty were falling.
When the righteous had fallen, and the combat was ended,
A chariot of fire through the dark cloud descended;

Its drivers were angels on horses of whiteness,
And its burning wheels turned on axles of brightness.

A seraph unfolded its doors bright and shining,
All dazzling like gold of the seventh refining,
And the souls that came forth out of great tribulation,
Have mounted the chariots and steeds of salvation.

On the arch of the rainbow the chariot is gliding.
Through the path of the thunder the horsemen are riding;
Glide swiftly, bright spirits! the prize is before ye,
A crown never fading, a kingdom of glory!

Song.-By JOSEPH TRAIN.

Mr. Train will be memorable in our literary history for the assistance he rendered to Sir Walter Scott in the contribution of some of the stories on which the Waverley novels were founded. He served for some time as a private soldier, but obtaining an appointment in the Excise, he rose to be a supervisor. He was & zealous and able antiquary, and author of a History of the Isle of Man,' and an account of a religious sect well known in the south of Scotland as The Buchamites.' Mr. Train died at Lochvale, Castle-Douglas, in 1852, aged seventy-three.

6

Wi' drums and pipes the clachan rang;
I left my goats to wander wide;
And e'en as fast as I could bang,
I bickered down the mountain-side,
My hazel rung and haslock plain
Awa' I flang wi' cauld disdain,
Resolved I would nae langer bide
To do the auld thing o'er again.

Ye barons bold, whose turrets rise

Aboon the wild woods white wi' snaw,
I trow the laddies ye may prize,
Wha fight your battles far awa'.
Wi' them to stan', wi' them to fa'.
Courageously I crossed the ma.n;
To see, for Caledonia,

The auld thing weel done o'e: again.

40

Right far a-fiel' I freely fought,

'Gainst mony an outlandish loon,"
An' wi' my good claymore I've brought
Mony a beardy birkie down:
While I had pith to wield it roun',
In battle I ne'er met wi' ane
Could dauton me, for Britain's crown,
To do the same thing o'er again.

Although I'm marching life's last stage,
Wi' sorrow crowded rouu' my brow;
An' though the knapsack o' auld age
Hangs heavy on my shoulders now-
Yet recollection, ever new,

Discharges a' my toil and pain,
When faucy figures in my view
The pleasant auld thing o'er again.

The great popularity of Burns's lyrics, co-operating with the national love of song and music, continued to call forth numerous Scottish poets, chiefly lyrical. A recent editor, Dr. Charles Rogers, has filled no less than six volumes with specimens of The Modern Scottish Minstrel, or the Songs of Scotland of the Past Half Century,' (1856–1857). Many of these were unworthy of resuscitation. but others are characterised by simplicity, tenderness, and pathetic feeling.

DRAMATISTS.

The popular dramatic art or talent is a rare gift. Some of the most eminent poets have failed in attempting to portray actual life and passion in interesting situations on the stage; and as Fielding and Smollett proved unsuccessful in comedy-though the former wrote a number of pieces-so Byron and Scott were found wanting in the qualities requisite for the tragic drama. It is evident,' says Campbell, that Melpomene demands on the stage something, and a good deal more than even poetical talent, rare as that is. She requires a potent and peculiar faculty for the invention of incident adapted to theatric effect; a faculty which may often exist in those who have been bred to the stage, but which, generally speaking, has seldom been shewn by any poets who were not professional players. There are exceptions to the remark, but there are not many. If Shakspeare had not been a player, he would not have been the dramatist that he is.' Dryden, Addison, and Congreve are excep tions to this rule; also Goldsmith in comedy, and, in our own day, Sir Edward Lytton Bulwer in the romantic drama. The Colmans, Sheridan, Morton, and Reynolds never wore the sock or buskin; but they were either managers, or closely connected with the theatre.

RICHARD BRINSLEY SHERIDAN.

Sheridan was early in the field as a dramatist, and both in wit and success eclipsed all his contemporaries. In January, 1775, his play of 'The Rivals' was brought out at Covent Garden. In this first effort of Sheridan-who was then in his twenty-fourth year-there is more humour than wit. He had copied some of his characters from 'Humphrey Clinker,' as the testy but generous Captain Absolute

evidently borrowed from Matthew Bramble-and Mrs. Malaprop, whose mistakes in words are the echoes of Mrs. Winifred Jenkins' blunders. Some of these are farcical enough; but as Moore observes --and no man has made more use of similes than himself-the luckiness of Mrs. Malaprop's simile-as headstrong as an allegory on the banks of the Nile'-will be acknowledged as long as there are writers to be run away with by the wilfulfulness of this truly headstrong species of composition. In the same year, St. Patrick's Day,' and "The Duenna were produced; the latter had a run of seventy-five nights! It certainly is greatly superior to The Beggar's Opera,' though not so general in its satire. In 1778, Sheridan wrote other two plays, The Trip to Scarborough' and The School for Scandal.' În plot, character, and incident, dialogue, humour, and wit, 'The School for Scandal' is acknowledged to surpass any comedy of modern times. It was carefully prepared by the author, who selected, arranged, and moulded his language with consummate taste, so as to form it into a transparent channel of his thoughts. Mr. Moore, in his 'Life of Sheridan,'gives some amusing instances of the various forms which a witticism or pointed remark assumed before its final adoption.

As, in his first comedy, Sheridan had taken hints from Smollett, in this, his last, he had recourse to Smollett's rival, or rather twin novelist, Fielding. The characters of Charles and Joseph Surface aro evidently copies from those of Tom Jones and Blifil. Nor is the moral of the play an improvement on that of the novel. The careless extravagant rake is generous, warm-hearted, and fascinating; seriousness and gravity are rendered odious by being united to meanness and hypocrisy. The dramatic art of Sheridan is evinced in the ludicrous incidents and situations with which The School for Scandal' abounds: his genius shines forth in its witty dialogues. 'The entire comedy,' says Moore, 'is an El Dorado of wit, where the precious metal is thrown about by all classes as carelessly as if they had not the least idea of its value." This fault is one not likely to be often committed! Some shorter pieces were afterwards written by Sheridan: The Camp,' a musical opera, and The Critic,' a witty afterpiece, in the manner of The Rehearsal.' The character of Sir Fretful Plagiary-intended, it is said, for Cumberland the drainatist— is one of the author's happiest efforts; and the schemes and contrivances of Puff the manager-such as making his theatrical clock strike four in a morning scene, to beget an awful attention' in the audience, and to save a description of the rising sun, and a great deal about gilding the eastern hemisphere--are a felicitous combination of humour and satire. The scene in which Sneer mortifies the vanity of Sir Fretful, and Puff's description of his own mode of life by his proficiency in the art of puffing, are perhaps the best that Sheridan ever wrote.