'The tide did now its floodmark gain, And girdled in the saint's domain: For, with the flow and ebb, its style Varied from continent to isle; Dryshod, o'er sands, twice every day, The pilgrims to the shrine find way; Twice every day, the waves efface Of staves and sandalled feet the trace. As to the port the galley flew, Higher and higher rose to view The castle, with its battled walls, The ancient monastery's halls-- A solemn, huge, and dark-red pile, Placed on the margin of the isle. In Saxon strength that abbey frowned, With massive arches broad and round, That rose alternate, row on row, On ponderous columns, short and low, Built ere the art was known, By pointed aisle, and shafted stalk, The arcades of an alley'd walk, To emulate in stone.' The scenes of Sarrow and Ettrick vales, associated with the life and described in the poetry of the Ettrick shepherd, deserve more attention from tourists than they usually receive. The single tomb in Ettrick kirkyard, the site of his birthplace near by, marked by a stone in the wall, bearing the letters J. H., Poet; Chapelhope, the scene of the 'Brownie o' Bodsbeck,' 'Sweet St. Mary's Lake,' Mount Benger, and the new monument recently erected on the shores of St. Mary's, representing the poet seated on a rock, his plaid thrown loosely over his shoulders, and his shepherd's dog by his side--all these localities cannot fail to interest those who know James Hogg, either by his works, or by his character, so powerfully and singularly delineated in the pages of 'Noctes Ambrosianæ.' Burns, the Ploughman--Scott, the Minstrel--Hogg, the Shepherd! How much does Scotland owe to the magic of their pens! Without them, her mountains and lakes and streams would never have known the presence of that indefatigable, money-spending feature of modern life--the tourist; for, without them, few indeed would be the Lions of Scotland. WE TWO. We own no houses, no lots, no lands; No dainty viands for us are spread; By sweat of our brows, and toil of our hands, We earn the pittance that buys us bread. And yet we live in a grander state, Sunbeam and I, than the millionaires Who dine off silver or golden plate, With liveried lacqueys behind their chairs. We have no riches in bonds or stocks; No bank books show, our balance to draw; Yet we carry a safe-key, that unlocks More treasure than Croesus ever saw. We wear no velvets, nor satins fine; We dress in a very homely way; But, ah! what luminous lustres shine About Sunbeam's gowns and my hodden gray. When we walk together--(we do not ride, We are far too poor)--it is very rare We are bowed unto from the other side Of the street--but not for this do we care. We are not lonely; we pass along, Sunbeam and I, and you cannot see (We can) what tall and beautiful throng Of angels we have for company.