_EXTRACTS AND CRITICISMS._ One good song is sufficient to secure immortality. Sappho lives in virtue of a single song. What then shall we say of Lady Nairne who has bequeathed more of these imperishable breathings to her country and to the world than any Caledonian bard, Burns alone excepted. The lyrics of Scotland were characterized by a loose ribaldry, she resolved to supply songs of a higher type. Take the following verses as a specimen of the good common sense, the cheerful practical philosophy, which, joined to poetic imagery, made its way to the hearts of the people. “Saw ye ne’er a lanely lassie, Thinkin’ gin she were a wife, The sun of joy wad ne’er gae down, But warm and cheer her a’ her life. “Saw ye ne’er a weary wifie, Thinkin’ gin she were a lass She wad aye be blithe and cheerie, Lightly as the day wad pass. “Wives and lassies, young and aged, Think na on each ither’s state; Ilka ane it has its crosses, Mortal joy was ne’er complete. “Ilka ane it has its blessings; Peevish dinna pass them by; Seek them out like bonnie berries, Tho’ amang the thorns they lie.” In 1824, “The Scottish Minstrel” was completed in six volumes, royal octavo, and Mr. Purdie and his editor, Mr. Smith, still believing “B. B.” to stand for Mrs. Bogan of Bogan, said, “In particular the editors would have felt happy in being permitted to enumerate the many original and beautiful verses that adorn their pages, for which they are indebted to the author of the much admired song, ‘The Land o’ the Leal;’ but they fear to wound a delicacy which shrinks from all observation.” “The Land o’ the Leal” well deserved the praise bestowed upon it. The name alone is a triumph of word-painting. Who that has heard it sung in a Scotch gloaming to a group of eager listeners will not confirm our words, that there is no song, not even of Burns, nor of Moore, nor of Béranger, nor of Heine, which approaches on its own ground “The Land o’ the Leal”? It was written for relatives of Lady Nairne’s, who had lost a child; its pathos is most exquisite. “I’m wearin’ awa, John, Like snaw-wreaths in thaw, John, I’m wearin’ awa To the land o’ the leal. There’s nae sorrow there, John; There’s neither cauld nor care, John; The day’s aye fair In the land o’ the leal.