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And there's a nice youngster of excellent pith; Fate tried to conceal him by naming him Smith; But he shouted a song for the brave and the free,—

Just read on his medal, "My country," "of thee!"

You hear that boy laughing? You think he's all fun;

But the angels laugh, too, at the good he has

done;

The children laugh loud as they troop to his call, And the poor man that knows him laughs loudest of all.

Yes, we're boys,- always playing with tongue or with pen;

And I sometimes have asked, Shall we ever be men?

Shall we always be youthful, and laughing, and

gay,

Till the last dear companion drops smiling away?

Then here's to our boyhood. its gold and its gray!

The stars of its winter, the dews of its May! And when we have done with our life-lasting toys, Dear Father, take care of thy children, THE

BOYS!

Oliver Wendell Holmes.

ROBERT BURNS.

On the 25th of January, in the year 1759, about two miles from the little village of Ayr, in a peasant's hut, was born one of the sweetest singers in the world of poetry. Robert Burns,

the national poet of Scotland. Not far away stand the ruins of Alloway Kirk, and just beyond it flow the peaceful waters of the "Bonny Doon."

Burns's father was very poor, and his childhood was filled with exhausting work and pinching privations. At the age of five he was sent to school at Alloway Mill, and later, his father joined with some of the neighbors to employ a teacher for their children.

Burns did not have access to many books, but such as he could obtain were read and reread. So great was the thirst for knowledge by the whole family that they frequently ate their meals with a book in one hand and a spoon in the other. Of a collection of songs, which fell into his hands about this time, he says, "I

[graphic]

pored over them driving my cart, or walking to labor, song by song, and verse by verse."

The family moved from Alloway to Mt. Oliphant in the hopes of bettering their financial condition, and from there to Lochlea. Here the struggle against poverty and misfortune was ended for the father, but the son continued for several years the life of a farmer.

His first poem was written when he was seventeen years of age.

He afterward moved to Mossgiel. Here, during the next few years, in the midst of hardships and misfortunes which could not crush his lofty spirit, he poured forth some of the exquisite songs that have made him famous. At this time were written "Halloween," "The Cotter's Saturday Night," "Lines to a Mouse," and "Lines to a Mountain Daisy."

Such was the

Troubles brought on by his lax ideas of life almost drove him to desperation. He meditated leaving his native land. In order that he might procure money to take him to Jamaica, he published a small volume of his poems on subscription; this was in 1786. popularity of this book, that he became famous at once. The beauty of his style and the poetic fervor of his imagery took the Scottish people by storm. He was a singer from their own native hills and dales. He sang songs that

smelt of the furrow, that glistened with the warm sunshine and thrilled with the music of their running rills and their sighing forests. They understood him, they loved him, and they spoiled him.

Encouraged by Dr. Blacklock, the blind poet, he visited Edinburgh, the Athens of Scotland. Here he moved in the polite society of that great university town. In the parlors of the wealthy or in the study of the professor he was as much at home as though he were on his heather-clad hills.

After the first wave of his popularity had subsided, he returned to the country and rented a farm. Here he composed two of his immortal poems, "Auld Lang Syne" and "Tam O'Shanter's Ride."

He died on the 21st of July, 1796. A distinguished poet, an acknowledged genius, admired and petted by court and society, adored by the common people- and dead before he was thirtynine. Such is the sad and brief biography of "Bobbie" Burns.

BANNOCKBURN.

At Bannockburn the English lay-
The Scots, they were na' far away,
But waited for the break o' day

That glinted in the east.

But soon the sun broke through the heath,
And lighted up that field o' death,
When Bruce, wi' saul-inspiring breath,

His heralds thus addressed:

"Scots wha hae wi' Wallace bled, Scots wham Bruce has aften led, Welcome to your gory bed,

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Or to victorie!

Now's the day, and now 's the hour;
See the front o' battle lower;

See approach proud Edward's power-
Chains and slaverie!

"Wha will be a traitor knave, Wha can fill a coward's grave, Wha sae base as be a slave,

Let him turn and flee!

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