nce wore
a perpetual smile. He joined in the amusements of the young, and took
delight in the recital of the merry tale and humorous anecdote. His
speech, somewhat affected by his complaint, became pleasant from the
heartiness of his observations. He was an affectionate husband, and a
devoted parent; his habits were strictly temperate, and he was
influenced by a devout reverence for religion. A posthumous volume of
his writings, under the title of "Weeds and Wild-flowers," was published
under the editorial care of Mr D. M. Moir, who has prefixed an
interesting memoir. As a lyrical poet, he is not entitled to a first
place; his songs are, however, to be remarked for deep and genuine
pathos.

THE BONNY LASS O' LEVEN WATER.

Though siller Tweed rin o'er the lea,
An' dark the Dee 'mang Highland heather,
Yet siller Tweed an' drumly Dee
Are not sae dear as Leven Water:
When Nature form'd our favourite isle,
An' a' her sweets began to scatter,
She look'd with fond approving smile,
Alang the banks o' Leven Water.

On flowery braes, at gloamin' gray,
'Tis sweet to scent the primrose springin';
Or through the woodlands green to stray,
In ilka buss the mavis singin':
But sweeter than the woodlands green,
Or primrose painted fair by Nature,
Is she wha smiles, a rural queen,
The bonny lass o' Leven Water!

The sunbeam in the siller dew,
That hangs upon the hawthorn's blossom,
Shines faint beside her e'en sae blue;
An' purer is her spotless bosom.
Her smile wad thaw a hermit's breast;
There 's love an' truth in ilka feature;
For her I 'm past baith wark an' rest,
The bonny lass o' Leven Water!

But I 'm a lad o' laigh degree,
Her purse-proud daddy 's dour an' saucy;
An' sair the carle wad scowl on me,
For speakin' to his dawtit lassie:
But were I laird o' Leven's glen,
An' she a humble shepherd's daughter,
I 'd kneel, an' court her for my ain,
The bonny lass o' Leven Water!

SLIGHTED LOVE.

The rosebud blushing to the morn,
The sna'-white flower that scents the thorn,
When on thy gentle bosom worn,
Were ne'er sae fair as thee, Mary!
How blest was I, a little while,
To deem that bosom free frae guile;
When, fondly sighing, thou wouldst smile;
Yes, sweetly smile on me, Mary!

Though gear was scant,