The Ochil hills behind it rise

Whence storm-clouds scour the air,

Yet ever steals a sunny blink

To bonny Inzievar.

Its broad thick woods are nestling round,

Its flowery banks are green

As in the day when Scota came

Of old to be our queen.

In later times a holier queen

Hath often rested there,

St Margaret, from Dunfermline gray,
Came oft to Inzievar,

And now the holy King of kings
On that blest spot resides,

For Jesus in His Sacrament
Within its walls abides.

He who was born in Bethlehem's shed

Beside the ox and ass,

He who as guest to Zaccheus came
The day with him to pass,

Dwells on the altar where the lamp
Burns ever, night and day,
And unseen angels thither come
To worship and to pray.

Therefore the sunbeams love to pause
Aloft with duteous care,

And weave a crown of golden rays
For happy Inzievar.

"He it Tholeth, Overcometh."

OLD SCOTCH MOTто.

A PECK of life, and a bushel of care,
A weary heart is ill to bear:

And the thyme grows fair with the lily.
Judgments rash, and cruel words,
Looks that wound like sharpened swords :
And the thyme grows fair with the lily.

Weary not in doing well,

The day will pass e'er thou canst tell :
And the thyme grows fair with the lily.
Looking back thou wilt rejoice
To think that patience was thy choice:
And the thyme grows fair with the lily.

The longest road is oft the best,-
The hardest earned, the deepest rest:
And the thyme grows fair with the lily.
Many an ill that can't be cured
Dies away when 'tis endured :
And the thyme grows fair with the lily.

Sweet leaves are bruised to yield perfume,-
From withered root the flowerets bloom :

And the thyme grows fair with the lily.
Soon earthly toil will all be done,
Then rest will come when Heaven is won :
And the thyme grows fair with the lily.

The Ring of the Dead,

'TWAS on the field of Agincourt,

One joyous summer morn,

When dewdrops hung on tree and flower,
And on the waving corn.

It was beside the warriors' mound,
That marks the spot aright,

Where knights like rose-leaves strewed the ground,
In thick of deadly fight.

A peasant's ploughshare turned to view
A bony, wasted hand,

The good right hand of champion true,
Who there had grasped his brand.

It glittered where the long grass waved,
For yet a ring it bore,

On which the word "Pensez" was graved,
Beneath a pansy flower.