The Isle of May.

LONELY is the Isle of May,
-With its starry beacon crest,
In the dark-blue sea midway,
Like an ocean bird at rest.

'Mid the wild winds' changeful sighing, 'Mid the rippling waters' play,

'Mid the seamaw's eerie crying

Stands the lonely Isle of May.

Holy is the Isle of May,

For upon its turf of green, Sprinkled by the salt waves' spray, Blest St Adrian's grave is seen.

There his holy life he led,

Whom the Danes for Christ did slay,

There in martyrdom he bled

On the hallowed Isle of May.

There he fasted, there he toiled,
There for Scotland did he pray,---
Gaining blessings, like a sea-cloud
From the distant Isle of May.

Even yet, the seaman gliding
In his bark past yonder bay,
Sees a light from heaven shining
O'er the grave wherein he lay.*

Shining o'er the restless ocean,
Shining far amid the gloom,
Saying, yet the martyr prayeth
For the land that owns his tomb.

And the fisher turns rejoicing

To his home now far away,
Bearing thence a benediction

From the lonely Isle of May.

It is the belief of the fishermen of the Firth of Forth, and was so long before the lighthouse was built, that a miraculous light is still seen shining above the spot where St Adrian was buried.

The Old Stone of Scone,

WHEN Jacob left his father's home,
A wanderer and by stealth,
Through friendless stranger lands to roam,
His staff his only wealth,

He sat him by the wayside drear,

Outwearied and alone,

And laid, as heavy sleep drew near,

His head upon a Stone.

Then to the slumbering man was given

A wondrous dream to know,

Of angel bands, 'tween earth and heaven, Calm gliding to and fro.

And there appeared an arch of light,
A ladder towering high,

As pathway for those seraphs bright,

Connecting earth and sky.

And at the top, 'twas his to see.
His God in glory stand,

Who said, "Behold I give to thee
All this untrodden land.

"And where thou liest, there shall be
Thy children's dwelling-place ;
And I will bless all earth in thee,
And in thy favoured race."

Then Jacob rose from sleep, and thought, "How awful is this spot,

I to God's presence have been brought, And yet I knew it not.”

And oil upon the Stone he poured,

And raised it up to be

Thus consecrated to the Lord,

For children's sons to see.

Strange changes came as Time rolled on, And to the distant north

Men bore the patriarch's pillow-stone,

From the wild desert forth.

It rested first on Erin's Isle,
Then in Iona's bay:

Destiny's Stone—the Lia fail—
Next blest Dunstaffnage gray.

The kings of Scotland there were crowned, For prophecy was plain :

That, "wheresoe'er that Stone were found, The Scottish race should reign."

And when our ancient kings removed
Their court to lordly Scone ;
From old Dunstaffnage, well beloved,
They brought the sacred Stone.

So when to Westminster it came,
It took a herald's place,
Betokening kings of Stuart name,
And ancient Scottish race.

And by that blood our monarchs reign,
Secure they hold their throne :

Its surest prop must still remain

Old Scotland's ancient Stone.