rt, Jeanie,
And your face sae angel fair!
May the ane be never pierced wi' grief,
Nor the ither blanch'd wi' care;
And he wha has your love, Jeanie,
May he be dear to thee,
As I may aiblins ance have been--
And as thou 'rt still to me!

ALLAN GIBSON.

A poet of sentiment and moral feeling, Allan Gibson was removed from the
scene at the threshold of a promising career. He was born at Paisley on
the 2d October 1820. In his boyhood he devoted himself to the perusal of
works of history and romance; and he acquired a familiarity with the
more distinguished British poets. It was his delight to stray amidst
rural scenes, and to imbibe inspiration among the solitudes of nature.
His verses were composed at such periods. They are prefaced by prose
reflections, and abound in delicate colouring and gentle pathos. Several
detached specimens of his prose writing are elegant and masterly. He
followed an industrial occupation, but was unfortunate in business.
After an illness of two years, he died on the 9th August 1849, at the
early age of twenty-nine. He was possessed of much general talent; was
fond of society, fluent in conversation, and eloquent as a public
speaker. His habits were sober and retiring. He left a widow and four
children. A thin 8vo volume of his "Literary Remains" was published in
1850, for the benefit of his family.

THE LANE AULD MAN.

He sorrowfu' sat by the ingle cheek,
Its hearth was cauld to his weary feet,
For a' were gane, an' nae mair would meet
By the side o' the lane auld man.

To the wreck o' his hopes fond memory clung
When flowers o' his heart on his hearthstane sprung;
But death's cauld hand had cruelly wrung
The heart o' the lane auld man.

A leafless tree in life's wintry blast,
He stood alane o' his kin the last,
For ane by ane frae his side they pass'd,
An' left him a lane auld man.

His bonnie bairns, o' his heart the prize,
Wi' their bounding step and sunny eyes,
Hae left his hearth for hame in the skies;
Alack for the lane auld man!

The weel lo'ed form o' his ain auld wife,
Wha sooth'd the cares o' a lang bleak life,
Has gane to rest wi' her weans frae strife,
An' heeds na her lane auld man.

Owre the turf on their breast he lo'ed to weep,
And sair he lang'd wi' the lost to meet