An' noo he's awa' tae the famed Dardanelles, An' we're prood o' the lad, for he's yin o' oorsel's, If he's spared tae come thro' nae surprise it will be If for valour he's wearin' the bonnie V.C. THE EXILE. One Sunday morning late in May I on the Calder banks did stray; Field and forest were in bloom, An' Nature all in perfect tune; A glorious sunshine, hum of bees, An' happy song-birds 'mang the trees; While from its bed the water's gleam Enhanced the beauty of the scene. From scenes like this my thoughts still roam To childhood's days, to love an' home. I long, with longing almost pain, To see those dear old scenes again. I mind the time when as a child I roved the hills so free an' wild, Sacred to martyrs' memory Who gave their lives for liberty. There Reid, the Muirland Bard, was born, Wha sang sae blithe an' cheerie O, O' hills an' glens, an' muirs an' fens, An' aiblins o' his dearie, O! Though I have wandered far from thee, An' tossed on life's deep stormy sea, My fondest memories ever turn To dear old friends by Wanlock burn. THE OLD CHURCHYARD. The sun has sunk behind the hills, And upward throws his golden light, While shadows creep adown the glen To gather in the coming night. On vantage ground, in pensive mood, I stand upon the heathery brae, And see the workers quit their toil, "And weary, homeward, wend their way." Mine eyes behold the old Churchyard, Wherein now mouldering lies the dust Of men and women whom I knew, So kindly-natured, good, and just. They lived their lives 'mid tranquil scenes, Like bloom on flowers they passed away; Their ashes lie 'neath the greening sod; Their spirits--where are they? I know not, therefore cannot tell; No man can see beyond the tomb; I live in hope that by-and-bye All kindred spirits may commune. A LETTER IN RHYME. _To JOHN PATERSON, Blantyre,_ _From ROBERT WANLOCK REID, Montreal._ Auld freen o' mine across the sea, What ails ye that ye never write? Ye canna hae forgotten me Or hoo tae speak in black an' white. Come, roose ye, man! an' gie's yer crack, I'm aye richt fain tae hear frae you, An' I'll engage tae post ye back Three sheets for yin, an' cram them fu'. Hech! but the times hae greatly changed Since oor acquaintanceship began; Then blithely owre the hills we ranged In yon wee glen whaur Wanlock ran. Sma' thocht had we that stormy seas Wad ever rowe oor steps atween; When lichtsome as the simmer breeze We gaed an' cam' at morn an' e'en. Noo at yer ain fireside ye sit, A douce guidman, 'mang wife an' weans, Rockin' the cradle wi' yer fit Or listenin' as the lassock learns; While I upon a foreign soil, Across the wild Atlantic faem, In lanely exile, cheerless, toil An' dream o' hame, an' dream o' hame.