me.

Oh! hame is aye hamely, dear, though poor at times it be,
Ye winna find a spot like hame in lands beyond the sea;
Oh! ye may wander east or west, in quest o' wealth or fame,
But there 's aye a pulse within the heart beats hame, hame, hame,
Oh! there 's aye a pulse within the heart beats hame, hame, hame.

PETER STILL.

Peter Still was born in the parish of Fraserburgh, Aberdeenshire, on the
1st day of January 1814. At the time of his birth his father rented a
farm, but, being unfortunate, he was compelled to seek the support of
his family by manual labour. With a limited education at the
parish-school of Longside, whither his parents had removed, the subject
of this memoir was sent, in his eleventh year, to tend cattle. When
somewhat older, he found employment as a farm-servant; but having
married in his twentieth year, he afterwards followed the more
precarious occupation of a day-labourer. Of a delicate constitution, he
suffered much from impaired health, being frequently, for months
together, confined to the sick-chamber. During the periods of
convalescence from illness, he composed verses, which he gave to the
world in three separate publications. His last work--"The Cottar's
Sunday, and other Poems"--appeared in 1845, in a handsome duodecimo
volume. He closed a life of much privation and suffering at Peterhead,
on the 21st March 1848.

Of sound religious principles and devoted Christian feeling, Still
meekly submitted to the bitterness of his lot in life. He was fortunate
in arresting the attention of some, who occasionally administered to his
wants, and contributed, by their patronage, to the increase of his
reputation. His verses are largely pervaded with poetical fervour and
religious sentiment, while his songs are generally true to nature. In
person he was tall and slender, of a long thin countenance, large dark
blue eyes, and curling black hair.

JEANIE'S LAMENT.

AIR--_"Lord Gregory."_

I never thocht to thole the waes
It 's been my lot to dree;
I never thocht to sigh sae sad
Whan first I sigh'd for thee.
I thocht your heart was like mine ain,
As true as true could be;
I couldna think there was a stain
In ane sae dear to me.

Whan first amang the dewy flowers,
Aside yon siller stream,
My lowin' heart was press'd to yours,
Nae purer did they seem;
Nae purer seem'd the draps o' dew,