to several of his acquaintance; but I do not know that any of these are now to be found. I have failed in recovering more than a few stanzas of it; and these I took down as they were repeated to me by my mother, who had committed them to memory when a child. They may prove interesting, rude and fragmentary as they are, to such of my readers as love to contemplate the poetic faculty wrapt up in the dishabille of an imperfect education. Besides, the writer may be regarded less as an insulated individual than as representative of a class. The unknown authors of some of our simpler old ballads, such as Edom o’ Gordon, Gilmorice, and the Bonny Earl of Moray, were, it is probable, men of similar acquirements, and a resembling cast of intellect. ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF A YOUNG WOMAN. She’s slain by death, that spareth none, An object worthy love; And for her sake was many a sigh,-- No doubt she’s now above. * * * In dress she lovéd to be neat, In handsome trim would go; She lovéd not to be above Her station, nor below. * * * But, in brief sentence, to have done Of all I have to say-- In midst of all her prospects here, She on a deathbed lay. And when she on a deathbed lay, To her were visits made By good and reverend elders, who In her great pleasure had. For she though in her pleasant youth, When time speeds sweetly by, Esteem’d it, trusting in her God, A blessed thing to die. And she their questions unto them Who sought her state to know, Did answer wisely every one, In pleasant words and low. * * * Her lykewake it was piously spent In social prayer and praise, Performéd by judicious men, Who stricken were in days. And many a sad and heavy heart Was in that mournful place; And many a weary thought was there On her who slept in peace. And then the town’s-folk gather’d all To bear her corpse away, And bitter tears by young and old Were shed that mournful day. And sure, if town’s-folk grievéd sore, Sore grieve may I and pine; They much deplored their heavy loss-- But what was theirs to mine? For her loved voice, I only hear Winds o’er her dust that sigh For her sweet smile, I only see The rank grass waving high. And I no option have but think How I am left alone; With none on earth to care for me, Since she who cared is gone. * * * She was the first that ever I In beauty’s bloom did see Departing from the stage of time, Into eternity. O may her sex her imitate, Example from her take, And strive t’ employ the day of grace, And wicked ways forsake!