But soon those sparks are lost to sight, Quenched in the river’s rayless night, And still rejoicing in his might, Tay sweepeth seawards sullenly. ’Tis midnight! scarce yon barque can make Her way where seething billows break, And still the winds and waters shake The heavens in their rivalry. Though darker yet the airy dome, Speed, gallant ship, across the foam! On! on! _Dundee_! and gather home Those wrecks of frail humanity! But none shall wake where many sleep, Their bier shall be the trackless deep; And ever shall the surges sweep Above their lonely sepulchre. From _Snatches of Song_, by F. B. Doveton. Wyman and Sons, London, 1880. The Tay Bridge broke down on December 28, 1879, carrying with it a train which was passing over at the time, and many lives were lost. ―――― ERIN-LIEDER. In Erin where the Praties grow When rents were high and prices low Ejected Paddies had to go, Across the ocean rapidly. But Erin saw another sight, When tenants struck for tenant right, And gallant Parnell led the fight, Against a Landlord tyranny. By torch-light leaders were conveyed To platforms, furious speeches made, And every tenant farmer bade, To “hold the harvest” steadily, Few, few the rents that any got, And if an Agent was not shot, He had to undergo Boycott- Ing, by a _furious_ peasantry. J. M. LOWRY, 1884. ―――― It is said that Campbell sent the MS. of Hohenlinden to the _Greenock Advertiser_, but that it was rejected, with a polite intimation “that it did not come up to the Editor’s standard, and that poetry was evidently not the _forte_ of the contributor.” A version of Hohenlinden in Latin sapphics, probably written by Father Prout (the Rev. Francis Mahony) appeared in Blackwood’s Magazine, in 1834; and another version, in Latin Alcaics, “Prælium Lindenium” by the Rev. William Fellowes A.M., appeared in the _Sabrinæ Corolla_, 1850. THE SOLDIER’S DREAM. Our bugles sang truce; for the night-cloud had lowered, And the sentinel stars set their watch in the sky; And thousands had sunk on the ground overpowered, The weary to sleep, and the wounded to die. When reposing that night on my pallet of straw, By the wolf-scaring fagot that guarded the slain, At the dead of the night a sweet vision I saw; And thrice ere the morning I dreamt it again. Methought from the battle-field’s dreadful array, Far, far I had roamed on a desolate track, ’Twas autumn――and sunshine arose on the way To the home of my fathers, that welcomed me back.