ye company in yer runnin' away from him? A bear!" says I, agin, beginnin' to trimble for fear the ould gint might not be quite dead—“give him another shot, Jimmy, to be sure ye've kilt him intirely."

He was dead sure enough, and we lift him alone quite gory.

Jimmy got me some new close, and we wint home.

Whin I told Judy of the squazin' I got, he blushed, and put her arrums around me nick, and gev me so soft a squaze that, for a time, I forgot me introduction to Mr. Bruin.

HERO AND LEANDER.-LEIGH HUNT.

But he, Leander, almost half across,

Threw his blithe locks behind him with a toss,
And hailed the light victoriously, secure
Of clasping his kind love, so sweet and sure;
When suddenly, a blast, as if in wrath,

Sheer from the hills, came headlong on his path;
Then started off; and driving round the sea,
Dashed up the panting waters roaringly.

The youth at once was thrust beneath the main
With blinded eyes, but quickly rose again,
And with a smile at heart, and stouter pride,
Surmounted, like a god, the rearing tide.

But what? The torch gone out! So long, too! See,
He thinks it comes! Ah, yes,-'tis she! 'tis she!
Again he springs; and though the winds arise
Fiercer and fiercer, swims with ardent eyes;
And always, though with ruffian waves dashed hard,
Turns thither with glad groan his stout regard;
And always, though his sense seems washed away,
Emerges, fighting towards the cordial ray.

But driven about at last, and drenched the while,
The noble boy loses that inward smile.

For now, from one black atmosphere, the rain
Sweeps into stubborn mixture with the main;
And the brute wind, unmuffling all its roar,
Storms; and the light, gone out, is seen no more.

Then dreadful thoughts of death, of waves heaped on him,
And friends and parting daylight rush upon him.
He thinks of prayers to Neptune and his daughters,
And Venus, Hero's queen, sprung from the waters;
And then of Hero only,-how she fares,

And what she'll feel, when the blank morn appears;

And at that thought he stiffens once again

His limbs, and pants, and strains, and climbs-in vain.
Fierce draughts he swallows of the wilful wave,
His tossing hands are lax, his blind look grave,
Till the poor youth (and yet no coward he)
Spoke once her name, and, yielding wearily,
Wept in the middle of the scornful sea.

I need not tell how Hero, when her light
Would burn no longer, passed that dreadful night;
How she exclaimed, and wept, and could not sit
One instant in one place; nor how she lit
The torch a hundred times, and when she found
"Twas all in vain, her gentle head turned round
Almost with rage; and in her fond despair
She tried to call him through the deafening air.

But when he came not,-when from hour to hour
He came not, though the storm had spent its power,
And when the casement, at the dawn of light,

Began to show a square of ghastly white,
She went up to the tower, and straining out
To search the seas, downwards, and round about

She saw at last,-she saw her lord indeed

Floating, and washed about, like a vile weed;-
On which such strength of passion and dismay
Seized her, and such an impotence to stay,
That from the turret, like a stricken dove,

With fluttering arms she leaped, and joined her drowned love.

AULD ROBIN GRAY.-ANNE BARNARD.

[Lady Anne Barnard, daughter of the Earl of Balcarres, was born in 1750. Robin Gray chanced to be the name of a shepherd at Balcarres. While she was writing this ballad, a little sister looked in on her. "What more shall I do," Anne asked, "to trouble a poor girl? I've sent her Jamie to sea, broken her father's armi, made her mother ill, and given her an old man for a lover. There's room in the four lines for ONE sorrow more. What shall it be?" "Steal the cow, sister Anne." Accordingly the cow was stolen.

The second part, it is said, was written to please her mother, who often asked "how that unlucky business of Jeanie and Jamie ended."]

FIRST PART.

When the sheep are in the fauld, when the kye's a' at hame, And a' the weary warld to rest are gane,

The woes o' my heart fa' in showers frae my e'e,

Unkent by my gudeman, wha sleeps sound by me.

Young Jamie lo'ed me weel, and sought me for his bride,
But saving a crown he had naething else beside;
To mak the crown a pound my Jamie gaed to sea,
And the crown and the pound-they were baith for me.

He hadna been gane a twelvemonth and a day

When my father brake his arm, and the cow was stown away;
My mother she fell sick-my Jamie was at sea-
And auld Robin Gray came a-courting me.

My father couldna work, my mother couldna spin,

I toiled day and night, but their bread I couldna win;
Auld Rob maintained them baith, and, wi' tears in his e'e,
Said, "Jeanie, for their sakes, will ye no marry me!"

My heart it said na, and I looked for Jamie back,
But hard blew the winds, and his ship was a wrack;
His ship was a wrack-why didna Jamie dee?
Or why am I spared to cry, Wae is me?

My father urged me sair-my mother didna speak,
But she lookit in my face till my heart was like to break;
They gied him my hand-my heart was in the sea-
And so Robin Gray he was gudeman to me.

I hadna been his wife a week but only four,
When, mournfu' as I sat on the stane at my door,
I saw my Jamie's ghaist, for I couldna think it he,
Till he said, "I'm come hame, love, to marry thee."
Oh! sair, sair did we greet, and mickle say o' a',
I gied him ae kiss and bade him gang awa'.
I wish that I were dead, but I'm no like to dee,
For tho' my heart is broken, I'm young,-wae's me!

I gang like a ghaist, and I carena to spin,

I darena think on Jamie, for that would be a sin:
But I'll do my best a gude wife to be,

For oh! Robin Gray he is kind to me.

SECOND PART.

The winter was come, 'twas simmer nae mair,
And, trembling, the leaves were fleeing thro' th' air;
"O winter," says Jeanie, "we kindly agree,

For the sun he looks wae when he shines upon me."

Nae longer she mourned, her tears were a' spent,
Despair it was come, and she thought it content-
She thought it content, but her cheek it grew pale,
And she bent like a lily broke down by the gale.

Her father and mother observed her decay;

What ails ye, my bairn?" they ofttimes would say;
"Ye turn round your wheel, but you come little speed,
For feeble's your hand and silly's your thread."

She smiled when she heard them, to banish their fear,
But wae looks the smile that is seen through a tear,

And bitter's the tear that is forced by a love
Which honor and virtue can never approve.

Her father was vexed and her mother was wae,
But pensive and silent was auld Robin Gray;
He wandered his lane, and his face it grew lean,
Like the side of a brae where the torrent has been.

Nae questions he spiered her concerning her health,
He looked at her often, but aye 'twas by stealth;
When his heart it grew grit,* and often he feigned
To gang to the door to see if it rained.

He took to his bed-nae physic he sought,
But ordered his friends all around to be brought;
While Jeanie supported his head in its place,
Her tears trickled down, and they fell on his face.

"Oh, greet nae mair, Jeanie," said he wi' a groan,
"I'm no worth your sorrow-the truth maun be known
Send round for your neighbors, my hour it draws near,
And I've that to tell that it 's fit a' should hear.

"I've wrong'd her," he said, "but I kent it ower late;
I've wrong'd her, and sorrow is speeding my date;
But a' for the best, since my death will soon free
A faithfu' young heart that was ill matched wi' me.

"I lo'ed and I courted her mony a day,

The auld folks were for me, but still she said nay;
I kentna o' Jamie, nor yet of her vow,

In mercy forgive me-'twas I stole the cow.

"I cared not for Crummie, I thought but o' thee-
I thought it was Crummie stood 'twixt you and me;
While she fed your parents, oh, did you not say
You never would marry wi' auld Robin Gray?'

"But sickness at hame and want at the door-
You gied me your hand, while your heart it was sore;
I saw it was sore,-why took I her hand?
Oh, that was a deed to my shame o'er the land!
"How truth soon or late comes to open daylight!
For Jamie cam' back, and your cheek it grew white-
White, white grew your cheek, but aye true unto me—
Ay, Jeanie, I'm thankfu'-I'm thankfu' to dee.

"Is Jamie come here yet?"-and Jamie they saw--
"I've injured you sair, lad, so leave you my a';
Be kind to my Jeanie, and soon may it be;
Waste nae time, my dauties, in mourning for me."

* Great, swollen. † Darlings.

They kissed his cauld hands, and a smile o'er his face
Seemed hopefu' of being accepted by grace:
"Oh, doubtna," said Jamie, "forgi'en he will be-
Wha wouldna be tempted, my love, to win thee?"

*

*

*

*

*

The first days were dowie while time slipt awa',
But saddest and sairest to Jeanie o' a'

Was thinkin' she couldna be honest and right,
Wi' tears in her e'e while her heart was sae light.

But nae guile had she, and her sorrow away,
The wife o' her Jamie, the tear couldna stay;
A bonnie wee bairn-the auld folks by the fire-
Oh, now she has a' that her heart can desire.

WE TWO.

It's just a bit of a story, sir, that don't sound much to strangers, but I'd like to tell you about it, if you have time to listen, for they've all forgotten Bobbery down here, except me; they're poor folks, you see, and things drift out of folks' heads when poverty drifts in.

Bobbery? yes, sir, that was his name-least ways the name we gave him down here. As to a father or mother, we never had any, I think; never had any one in the wide world to belong to except our two selves-Bobbery and me. I was the eldest-two long years older than him; but then I was blind, you see, so the two years didn't count for much, and Bobbery got ahead of me after the time when the long days of pain slipped into lone night, and God shut me out of the world-not that I grumble, sir-I've given over that; and Bobbery was always such a good lad to me that perhaps I didn't miss so much, after all.

I grew to fancy things, and make believe I saw a great deal, particularly after Bobbery took to working at his tradeshoe-black, sir; and sometimes, when I became accustomed to being always in the dark, I went out with Bobbery, and held the money that he made.

Well, not much, perhaps, but enough for us two, and the little room we had down at Kingstown, over against the river; only Bobbery was an extravagant lad-not in drink, sir-we were always a sober lot-but in oranges.

WWWW*