Look to it, ye three-bottle beasts, or men--as the courtesy of a cringing world calls you--look to it, when ye toast the next lordly victor “with three times three!”--Shout ’till the roof rings, and then think, amid the din of your compeers, of the _humble_ dead--of those who walk _silently_ in the path of the grave, and of the widowed and fatherless. Commanders die for glory, for a funeral procession, or a title, or wealth for those they leave behind; but who speaks of the private, who dies with a wound for every pore?--he rots on the earth; or, with some scores or hundreds of his comrades, a few inches beneath it; and his wife gets--“sixpence a day!” Poor fellow, thought I, as I looked on my narrator--were I a king--but kings cannot scrape acquaintance with every man in the ranks of their forces--but had I been your officer, I _think_ you should not have wanted your pension for the few days that are to shine on you in this world; and, had you fallen, it should have gone hard with me, but your wife and two children should have had their twopence each per day--and, were I a man of fortune, I would be proud to keep the life in such a heart, as long as God would permit--and so saying, or thinking--and blinking away the dimness of humanity from my eye--I thrust my hand into my pocket, and gave him Sixpence.--Reader! smile not; I am but a poor harum scarum headed mortal--_’t was all I had_, “in possession, expectancy, remainder, or reversion”-- J. J. K. [78] [“--The ACCUSING SPIRIT flew up to heaven’s chancery with the oath, and blushed as he gave it in--the RECORDING ANGEL, as he wrote it down, dropped a tear upon the word, and blotted it out for ever!”--_Sterne._ ED.] * * * * * ~Highland Legend.~ The following poem originates in a legend which is still popular in many parts of the highlands of Scotland: that a female branch of the noble family of Douglas contracted an imprudent marriage with a kerne, or mountain peasant, who was drowned in the Western Islands, where he had escaped for concealment from the persecutions of the offended family of his wife. She survived him eighteen years, and wandered a maniac over the mountains, where, as superstition alleges, she is even now to be seen at daybreak. The stanzas are supposed to be the extempore recitations of an old bard to a group of attentive villagers. THE LADY OF THE HILL. Poor girl! she seem’d of an unearthly mould, A thing superior to the frowns of fate; But never did my tearful eyes behold A maid so fair, and so disconsolate; Yet was she once a child of high estate, And nurst in splendour, till an envious gloom Sunk her beneath its harsh o’erpowering weight: Robb’d her pale features of their orient bloom, And with a noiseless pace, mov’d onwards to the tomb.