THE AUTUMU WINDS ARE BLAWING.

THE autumn winds are blawing, red leaves are fa'ing,
An' nature is mourning the simmer's decay;
The wee birdies singing, the wee flowerets springing,
Hae tint a' their sangs, an' withered away!
I, too, am mourning, for death has nae returning,
Where are my bairnies, the young an' the gay?
Why should they perish !-the blossoms we cherish—
The beautiful are sleeping cauld in the clay!

Fair was their morning, their beauty adorning,
The mavis sang sweet at the closing o' day;
Now the winds are raving, the green grass is waving,
O'er the buds o' innocence cauld in the clay!
Ilka night brings sorrow, grief comes ilk morrow-
Should gowden locks fade before the auld an' grey?
But still, still they're sleeping, wi' nae care nor weeping,
The robin sits chirping ower their cauld clay!

In loveliness smiling, ilka day beguiling,
In joy and in gladness, time murmured by;

What now were pleasure, wi' a' the warld's treasure?

My heart's in the grave where my fair blossoms lie! The autumn winds are blawing, red leaves are fa'ing, Moaning is the gale as it rides on its way;

A wild music's sighing, it seems a voice crying"Happy is that land that knows no decay!"

OUR AIU BURU-SIDE.

OH! weel I mind the days, by our ain burn side, When we clam the sunny braes, by our ain burn side, When flowers were blooming fair,

And we wandered free o' care,

For happy hearts were there, by our ain burn side!

Oh! blithe was ilka sang, by our ain burn side,
Nor langest day seemed lang, by our ain burn side
When we decked our woodland queen

In the rashy chaplet green,

And gay she looked, I ween, by our ain burn side.

But the bloom hath left the flower, by our ain burn side And gath'ring tempest low'r, by our ain burn side.

The woods-no longer green

Brave the wintry blasts sae keen,

And their withered leaves are seen by our ain burn side.

And the little band is gane frae our ain burn side,
To meet, ah! ne'er again, by our ain burn side,

And the winter of the year

Suits the heart both lone and sere,

For the happy ne'er appear by our ain burn side!

TO THE MEMORY OF SEOŢI.

THE Minstrel sleeps !-the charm is o'er,
The bowl beside the fount is broken,
And we shall hear that Harp no more,
Whose tone to every land hath spoken!

The Minstrel sleeps !—and common clay
Claims what is only common now;
His eye hath lost its kindling ray,
And darkness sits upon his brow!

The Minstrel sleeps !-the spell is past,
His spirit its last flight hath taken;

The magic wand is broke at last,

Whose touch all things to life could waken!

The Minstrel sleeps !-the glory's fled,
The soul's returned back to the Giver,

And all that e'er could die is dead,

Of him whose name shall live forever!

*

ALEXANDER BETHUNE.

1804-1843.

ALEXANDER BETHUNE, one of the most remarkable instances of genius struggling with poverty, was born in Letham, Fifeshire. He had but limited opportunities for mental improvement, having been but a few weeks at school, but his mother taught him at home to read, and his father gave him some lessons in writing and arithmetic.

His boyish days and early manhood were spent in toiling for a subsistence and struggling with the most abject poverty. While employed in breaking stones on the road in 1835, he addressed himself to the Messrs. Chambers at Edinburgh, the ever-active patrons of youthful genius, in a most characteristic and clever letter, in which he explained his humble circumstances, and his desire to send some of his articles for inspection, with a view to their insertion in the "Edinburgh Journal." These gentlemen sent a kind reply, and the result was, that shortly afterwards several articles from Bethune's pen appeared in the columns of that popular periodical. Thus began his literary career. Пle wrote a volume of beautiful sketches, illustrative of Scottish life and manners, entitled "Tales and Sketches of the Scottish Peasantry." His days were spent in manual labor, and his nights in the composition of these stories and other literary efforts. On the death of his brother John, he prepared his memoir and edited his poems, which were published by subscription. His intense application and prolonged efforts no doubt hastened his end. He died in his thirty-ninth year, on the 13th June, 1843.