rom other hands than mine they fell.

Still, silent slumbering, let it keep
That sacred touch! And oh! as dim
To life, would, would that I could sleep,
Could sleep, and only dream of _him_!

WILLIAM CHALMERS.

William Chalmers was born at Paisley in 1779. He carried on the business
of a tobacconist and grocer in his native town, and for a period enjoyed
considerable prosperity. Unfortunate reverses caused him afterwards to
abandon merchandise, and engage in a variety of occupations. At
different times he sought employment as a dentist, a drysalter, and a
book distributor; he sold small stationery as a travelling merchant, and
ultimately became keeper of the refreshment booth at the Paisley railway
station. He died at Paisley on the 3d of November 1843. Chalmers wrote
respectable verses on a number of subjects, but his muse was especially
of a humorous tendency. Possessed of a certain versatility of talent, he
published, in 1839, a curious production with the quaint title,
"Observations on the Weather in Scotland, shewing what kinds of weather
the various winds produce, and what winds are most likely to prevail in
each month of the year." His compositions in verse were chiefly
contributed to the local periodicals and newspapers.

SING ON.

AIR--_"The Pride of the Broomlands."_

Sing on, thou little bird,
Thy wild notes sae loud,
O sing, sweetly sing frae the tree;
Aft beneath thy birken bow'r
I have met at e'ening hour
My young Jamie that 's far o'er the sea.

On yon bonnie heather knowes
We pledged our mutual vows,
And dear is the spot unto me;
Though pleasure I hae nane,
While I wander alane,
And my Jamie is far o'er the sea.

But why should I mourn,
The seasons will return,
And verdure again clothe the lea;
The flow'rets shall spring,
And the saft breeze shall bring,
My dear laddie again back to me.

Thou star! give thy light,
Guide my lover aright,
Frae rocks and frae shoals keep him free;
Now gold I hae in store,
He shall wander no more,
No, no more shall he sail o'er the sea.

THE LOMOND BRAES.

"O, lassie, wilt thou go
To the Lomond wi' me?
The wild thyme 's in bloom.
And the flower 's on the lea;
Wilt thou go my dearest love?
I will ever constant prove,
I 'll range each hil