art of composition becomes a weapon, eloquence is action; tyranny finds itself attacked by its most formidable foes, reason and indignation; and what is called 'protection,' being of the very essence of despotism, all tyrants have dreaded and hated the natural enemies of 'protection'-men who, thinking deeply, speak honestly, that is, fearlessly." Yet when we complain of the greatest wrong ever inflicted on the world by a faction, we are told we must speak meekly of its authors-cauterize with milk and water-and by no means convert a sarcasm into an argument, as if it were possible to address to such persons a sarcasm which is not an argument ! That it is not possible I will endeavour to demonstrate. Instead of the word "argument" then, read "gallows;" and I will defy them to show that it ever was more properly applied as a punishment to any criminal, than it might be to about five hundred of their number, whom it would be easy to name, and, perhaps, in the highest degree prudent.

LYRICS FOR MY DAUGHTERS.

SONG.

Ye Banks and Braes O Bonny Doon.

Он, Love, thou art a heav'n on earth,
And earth is heav'n enough for thee!
But souls must have their second birth,
And far, far hence thy home must be :
We go to join the lost and true,
Our task perform'd, our foes forgiv'n :
In wind and rain, on earth we grew,
And need not fear the calm of heav'n.

Beneath dim star, and clouded moon,
Torn hearts may blissful secrets tell :
Bright shines the ice on rocks at noon,
And hoary locks become thee well:
What, though 'tis sad our way to wing
From cares that give a charm to pain?
Our withering autumn shall be spring,
And these dry branches bud again.

SONG.

Auld Lang Syne.

"THE Home of Taste," say souls of dust,

"Is not for men who toil :

For bread alone they till, and must,

Life's hopeless soil."

But here comes he whom no one knows,
The thrall of tasteless power ;

Why plucks he, as he homeward goes,
The hawthorn flower?

Red Rose, that lov'st the cottage door,
If hope within there be !

Why stops a wretch so tired and poor,
To look on thee?

Oh, yet the greatest and the least

A Home of Taste will find!

And Knowledge spread her beauteous feast For all mankind!

The only high and heart-based throne
Is unclass'd virtue's prize;

For who are great? The good alone,
They only wise.

And what, sweet rose, sweet hawthorn flower,

To hind, or artisan,

Are Taste's pure charm, and Beauty's power, But God in Man?

CHANT.

THE angels are our brothers;

Let us like them become,

And emulate in beauty

The first-born of our home:

Lord! we are thine, and they are thine :

In rescued Eden, let us twine

With mortal virtues love divine,

And be earth's angels !

SONG.

The Light of other Days.

WHEN days of frost and snow were over,

I told the sleepless moon,

I told the stars, that my true lover

Would see his Mary soon:

Now, children seek the daisied closes,
Birds sing the green world o'er,

And woodbines wed the wild hedge roses,
But William comes no more!

Ere wintry days again are over,
Ere daisies come again,

I shall not need a faithless lover,

Nor wish for rest in vain :

Oh, Woodbine flower, our last was spoken
Where now thou flauntest free!

Oh, wild Hedge Rose, my heart is broken!
Thou bloom'st in vain for me.

SONG.

Long Ago.

SING her a song of the white-headed one,
Gone, gone before! Gone, gone before!
Sing to her tears of the sire who is gone!
When to come more? Never more!
Heart-breaking sea, when she weepeth alone,
Tell his sad child that the white-headed one
Went to the grave blessing her who was gone

Wide, wide waves o'er! Wide waves o'er!