Various as the tints of even, Or pirate rover sent from Sallee; Was the sun himself your sire? Or of the shade of golden flowers, And yet, since on this hapless earth Born 1797. Thomas Haynes Bayly. {Died 1839. ONE of the most successful of our song writers, was born 13th October 1797, at Bath. His father was a wealthy solicitor in Bath, and destined his son for the Church, but the early development of Bayly's poetical powers led to his neglect of study, and he abandoned all idea of it. In 1826 he married Miss Hayes, an Irish lady, and an incomte settled on him by his father, with the lady's fortune, enabled them to live in affluence. His songs and plays, and contributions to literature, also brought him considerable sums. "The Soldier's Tear," "I'd be a Butterfly," "Oh! no, we never mention her," &c., enjoyed an extraordinary popularity. He died in 1839. WE MET. WE met 'twas in a crowd-and I thought he would shun me; Bright gems were in my hair, how I hated their brightness; THE MISLETOE BOUGH. THE misletoe hung in the castle hall, The holly branch shone on the old oak wall; The baron beheld with a father's pride "I'm weary of dancing now;" she cried; "And, Lovell, be sure thou'rt first to trace "The clue to my secret lurking place." Away she ran and her friends began Each tower to search, and each nook to scan; And young Lovell cried, "Oh where dost thou hide? "I'm lonesome without thee, my own dear bride." They sought her that night! and they sought her next day! And when Lovell appeared, the children cried, At length an oak chest, that had long lain hid, William Motherwell. { Born 1797. Was born at Glasgow, and when yet young was appointed deputy to the sheriff-clerk in Paisley. In 1819 he connected himself with a maga zine, and contributed some pieces of poetry to it. In 1827, as the fruit of several years' labour, he published a collection of "Scottish Ballads," ancient and modern. He became after this successively the editor of the "Paisley Magazine," "Paisley Advertiser," and "Glasgow Courier;" in the editorship of the latter newspaper he continued till his death. In 1832 he published a collected edition of his own poems. He was busy obtaining materials for a Life of Tannahill, when he was cut off by apoplexy in 1835. JEANIE MORRISON. I'VE wandered east, I've wandered west, Through mony a weary way; But never, never can forget The love of life's young day! The fire that's blawn on Beltane e'en, May weel be black gin Yule; But blacker fa' awaits the heart O dear, dear Jeanie Morrison, As memory idly summons up The blythe blinks o' langsyne. 'Twas then we loved ilk ither weel, 'Twas then we twa did part; Sweet time!-sad time !-twa bairns at schule, Twa bairns, and but ae heart! 'Twas then we sat on ae laigh bink, To lear ilk ither lear; And tones, and looks, and smiles were shed, Remembered ever mair. I wonder, Jeanie, aften yet, When sitting on that bink, Cheek touchin' cheek, loof locked in loof, Wi' ae buik on our knee, Thy lips were on thy lesson, but O mind ye how we hung our heads, The schule then skaled at noon- The throssil whistled in the wood, The burn sung to the trees, Concerted harmonies; And on the knowe aboon the burn, For hours thegither sat In the silentness o' joy, till baith Aye, aye, dear Jeanie Morrison, Herbert Knowles. { Born 1798. Died 1817. A NATIVE of Canterbury, whose early promise was cut short by death in his nineteenth year. The following stanzas were published in the "Quarterly Review," and soon obtained a wide circulation. LINES WRITTEN IN THE CHURCHYARD OF RICHMOND, YORKSHIRE. "It is good for us to be here: if thou wilt, let us make here three tabernacles; one for thee, and one for Moses, and one for Elias."-MATT. xvii. 4. METHINKS it is good to be here, If thou wilt, let us build-but for whom? Nor Elias nor Moses appear; But the shadows of eve that encompass with gloom Shall we build to Ambition? Ah no! Affrighted, he shrinketh away; For see, they would pin him below In a small narrow cave, and, begirt with cold clay, To Beauty? Ah no! she forgets The charms which she wielded before; Nor knows the foul worm that he frets The skin which but yesterday fools could adore, To Riches? Alas! 'tis in vain; Who hid in their turns have been hid; |