e devoted his leisure hours to reading such
scraps of songs as he could manage to procure. In his thirteenth year he
essayed to compose verses, and at the age of twenty became a contributor
of poetical stanzas to the provincial journals. Encouraged by a numerous
list of subscribers, he published, in 1847, "The Rustic Bard," a
duodecimo volume of poems and songs. After being several years resident
at Hopekirk, Roxburghshire, he removed in 1854 to Bridge of Allan, where
he is well employed as a florist and landscape gardener.

THE AULD KIRK BELL.

In a howm, by a burn, where the brown birks grow,
And the green ferns nod when the wild winds blow,
Stands the roofless kirk in the auld kirkyard,
Where the gowans earliest gem the swaird;
And the gray, gray moss on ilk cauld through stane
Shrouds in oblivion the lang, lang gane--
Where the ance warm heart is a cauld, cauld clod,
And the beauteous and brave give a green to the sod--
On a time-worn tower, where the dim owls dwell,
Tuneless and torn, hangs the auld kirk bell.

On the auld kirk floor is the damp night dew,
Where warm words flow'd in a worship true;
Is the sugh o' the breeze, and the hum o' the bee
As it wings and sings in its taintless glee
Through the nettles tall to the thistles red,
Where they roughly wave o'er each deep, dark bed;
And it plies its task on the wa'-flowers tall,
Which bloom in the choir and wave on the wall;
Then, soaring away with a sweep and a swell,
It covers its combs in the auld kirk bell.

By the crumbling base of the auld kirk tower
Is the broad-leaved dock and the bright brae flower;
And the adders hiss o'er the lime-bound stones,
And playfully writhe round mouldering bones:
The bat clingeth close to the binewood's root,
Where its gnarled boughs up the belfry shoot,
As, hiding the handworks of ruthless time,
It garlands in grandeur and green sublime
The hoary height, where the rust sae fell
Bends, as with a burden, the auld kirk bell.

Oh, red is the rust, and a ruin is come
To the auld kirk bell--ance and ever it 's dumb;
On the brink of the past 'tis awaiting a doom,
For a wauf o' the wind may awaken its tomb,
As, bearing its fragments, all dust-like, away,
To blend with water, the wood and the clay,
Till lost 'mid the changes of manners and men;
Then ne'er ane will