The treasures are squandered again;

And here in the grave are all metals forbid,
But the tinsel that shines on the dark coffin-lid.

The first tabernacle to Hope we will build,
And look for the sleepers around us to rise!

The second to Faith, which insures it fulfilled; And the third to the Lamb of the great sacrifice, Who bequeathed us them both when He rose to the skies.

Robert Gilfillan.

{

Born 1798.
Died 1850.

A NATIVE of Dunfermline, he was for some time a clerk in Leith, and subsequently collector of poors-rates there.

THE EXILE'S SONG.

OH! why left I my hame?
Why did I cross the deep?
Oh! why left I the land
Where my forefathers sleep?
I sigh for Scotia's shore,
And I gaze across the sea,
Bnt I canna get a blink
O' my ain countrie!

The palm-tree waveth high,
And fair the myrtle springs;
And, to the Indian maid,
The bulbul sweetly sings.
But I dinna see the broom

Wi' its tassels on the lea,
Nor hear the lintie's sang
O' my ain countrie!

Oh! here no Sabbath bell

Awakes the Sabbath morn,

Nor song of reapers heard

Amang the yellow corn:
For the tyrant's voice is here,
And the wail o' slaverie;
But the sun of freedom shines
In my ain countrie!

There's a hope for every woe,
And a balm for every pain,
But the first joys o' our heart
Come never back again.
There's a track upon the deep,
And a path across the sea;
But the weary ne'er return
To their ain countrie!

James Hislop.

{

Born 1798.
Died 1827.

BORN in Kirkconnel, near Sanquhar, in July 1798. In early life he was occupied as a shepherd in the neighbourhood of Airsmoss, interesting for its Covenanting associations. Here, at the grave of one of the Covenanters, he composed "The Cameronian's Dream." He is also the author of several other beautiful poems. Hislop afterwards became a teacher, and, through the influence of Lord Jeffrey, he was appointed schoolmaster in a man-of-war. He died of fever at St Jago, 4th December 1827.

THE CAMERONIAN'S DREAM.

In a dream of the night I was wafted away,
To the muirland of mist 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 torn 'mong the heather was lying.
'Twas morning; and summer's young sun from the east
Lay in loving repose on the green mountain's breast;
On Wardlaw and Cairntable the clear 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.

But, oh! there were hearts cherished far other feelings,
Illumed 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 horsemen of Earlshall around them were hovering,
And their bridle reins rung through the thin misty covering.

Their faces grew pale, and their swords were unsheathed, But the vengeance that darkened their brow 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 'mid 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 clouds 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!

Thomas Hood.

Born 1798.

Died 1845.

THIS poet, humorist, and accomplished writer, was born in London, his father being a bookseller there. Hood was sent to a merchant's office early in life, but his health failing, he was sent to Dundee to recruit, and on his return to London was apprenticed to an engraver, under whom he learned much of the art which was useful to him in his after career. In 1821 he adopted literature as a profession, and was appointed to the editorship of the London Magazine, which he held till its discontinuance. Hood was a busy writer, and enlivened the weeklies and monthlies with his wit and humour. He is the author of several volumes of poetry and prose; but the piece by which he is best known is "The Song of the Shirt," which first appeared in "Punch." It struck home to the sympathies of man's nature, and aroused the feelings of a benevolent public in favour of the poor seamstress. After a long and wasting illness, Hood died 3d May 1845.

THE SONG OF THE SHIRT.

WITH fingers weary and worn,
With eyelids heavy and red,
A woman sat, in unwomanly rags,
Plying her needle and thread.
Stitch-stitch-stitch!

In poverty, hunger, and dirt;
And still with a voice of dolorous pitch
the 66 Song of the Shirt!"

She sang

"Work-work-work!

While the cock is crowing aloof!

And work-work-work!

Till the stars shine through the roof!

It's oh! to be a slave,

Along with the barbarous Turk,
Where woman has never a soul to save,
If this is Christian work!

"Work-work-work!

Till the brain begins to swim;
Work-work-work!

Till the eyes are heavy and dim!

Seam, and gusset, and band,
Band, and gusset, and seam,
Till over the buttons I fall asleep,

And sew them on in a dream!

"O men, with sisters dear!

O men, with mothers and wives, It is not linen you're wearing out! But human creatures' lives! Stitch-stitch-stitch!

In poverty, hunger, and dirt; Sewing at once, with a double thread, A shroud as well as a shirt.

"Work-work-work!

My labour never flags;

And what are its wages? A bed of straw,
A crust of bread, and rags.

That shattered roof-and this naked floor

A table-a broken chair;

And a wall so blank, my shadow I thank
For sometimes falling there!

"Oh! but to breathe the breath

Of the cowslip and primrose sweet—
With the sky above my head,

And the grass beneath my feet,
For only one short hour
To feel as I used to feel,
Before I knew the woes of want,
And the walk that costs a meal!

"Oh, but for one short hour!
A respite however brief!

No blessed leisure for love or hope,
But only time for grief!

A little weeping would ease my heart,
But in their briny bed

My tears must stop, for every drop
Hinders needle and thread."

With fingers weary and worn,
With eyelids heavy and red,
A woman sat, in unwomanly rags,
Plying her needle and thread.
Stitch-stitch-stitch!

In poverty, hunger, and dirt;
And still with a voice of dolorous pitch,

Would that its tone could reach the rich!

She sang this "Song of the Shirt!"