Curmudgeon.

The word "curmudgeon" denotes to the Author's mind everything that is bad in human nature.

O' a' the ills we hae tae bear, The greatest is Curmudgeon, An' gin I had ma wull o' him I'd trounce him wi' a bludgeon.

He thinks that man was made tae mourn, Tae trouble he wad bind him; Tae ilk fireside he trouble brings An' leaves the same behind him.

He is the "daith's-heid at the feast;" He's always in employment; His greatest pleesure is tae keep Mankind frae a' enjoyment.

When we are on a holiday We want the sun tae smile again, An' gie's a joyfu' cloudless day; It's then Curmudgeon prays for rain.

To him, there's great men in this warl', There's equals and inferiors; He scorns the honest working-man, And fawns on his superiors.

He licks the rich man's dirty buits, An' never min's the flavour; By every means he tries tae gain The lordling's smile an' favour.

A bonnie lass gaes dancin' by, Wha's licht o' hert an' cheerie; He tells the next man that he meets She's anybody's dearie.

An' if he meets a sober lass Wha has nae smile tae greet him, He says "still waters aft rin deep, An' the deevil lies beneath them."

The lads are a' gaun tae the deuce Wi' impudence an' pride, man! Their lauch an' sang an' merry ploy Curmudgeon canna bide, man.

He is an elder in the kirk, Believes in fire an' blood, man; An' for oor sins wad burn us up Or droon us in a flood, man.

Curmudgeon is a thrifty carle, The siller he can hain, man; Tae catch the bawbees on the hop Curmudgeon's ever fain, man.

It maiters na' hoo it may come, Tae him it's always gain, man; Owre ilk yin's fauts he greets an' granes, An' never min's his ain, man.

Tae damp the fire o' age an' youth He's like a sowkit blanket; We hae na mony o' his kin', "Sae let the Lord be thankit."

Burns e'en had peety for the Deil, Deep doon in his vile dungeon; But Clootie is a gentleman Compared wi' auld Curmudgeon.

THE BONNIE BANKS O' CREE.

Down by the river Cree I stray This lovely day in June; The birds are sweetly singing. The wild rose is in bloom, The sparkling waters flowing From the high-land rocks set free In kingly style and glory by The bonnie banks o' Cree.

O, if I were an artist true I'd paint this scene so fair-- Fields and flowers and shaggy woods, And streams and mountains bare. And if I were a minstrel bard I'd sing in praise of thee, The wild birds to outrival on The bonnie banks o' Cree.

Sweet river, I must leave you, And I leave you with regret: This glorious day upon thy banks I never will forget. I may again, if Heaven wills, Enjoy thy charms and see The love-inspiring beauty of The bonnie banks o' Cree.

CHANCELLOR'S SEAT, LEADHILLS.

Amidst the Lowther Hills, on a slope rising from the Shortcleugh Burn, the friends of the late Henry Chancellor of Newton and Shieldhill have erected in his memory and to mark the spot where, he was found dead on the 1st of April, 1915, a stone seat, which is a centre of interest to visitors in this district. On paying my first visit on a fine Autumn day to Chancellor's Seat, as it is called, I was deeply impressed by the circumstances of his death and the wild beauty, solemnity and solitude of the scene of his passing, In front, the main Lowther Slope rising steeply to its lofty summit, its still smooth sides dressed in soft springy grey green turf; from the right, the Shortcleugh Burn springing from the rocks of the Five Cairns, winding its way down the Glen; to the left, the purple heather clad hills stretching as far as the eye could see, and in close proximity the Reservoir, its surface water moved by the wind, and sparkling in the rays of the sun--the whole made a scene that could not fail to soothe the jaded spirit, weary with the vexations and troubles of life. Such, with its Spring instead of its Autumn dressing, was the scene of the passing of Henry Chancellor.

Amidst the everlasting hills He loved so well, He met his end; what pain he bore No tongue could tell; No earthly friend was standing by, No loved one over him to sigh, No tender human heart was nigh With grief to swell.

And, yet, his greatest Friend was there, In yon' lone glen, Who holds Creation in His care And lives of men; To comfort and uphold him, till The Angels winged adown the hill To bear his spirit from all ill And mortal ken.

IN MEMORIAM.

THE LAST OF THE OLD BAN'.

Lines suggested by the death of John Dixon.

Gone is the last o' a guid auld Ban' That played in the glen langsyne; "Buirdly an' bauld like the hills o' their hame," Stalwart in body an' min'; For anything clever an' manly At gala or market or fair They could haud the croon o' the causey, Frichtit for naebody there.

Gracies, M'Millans, an' Tyler, Nicol an' Dixon, M'Kane, Hastie an' Harkness an' Shankland, Their like we may ne'er see again. Weel could they han'le their trumpets, Their notes a' sae sweetly in tune; Nae Ban' could tae them haud a can'le Tho' ye'd socht for a hunner mile roon.

An' yet they said naething aboot it, Sae modest an' manly were they: They never were guid at the braggin', Tho' difficult pairts they could play. They played at the sports an' the picnic, They played at the concert an' dance. Weel pleased if by honest endeavour They could oor bit pleasures enhance.

Happy were they a' thegither When met for a crack or a dram; Their mirth never mair unseemly Than the lilt o' a guid auld sang. Noo, alas! they're gane frae amang us, Nae mair will their music inspire; Maybe the Maister has ta'en them Tae play in the heavenly choir.

TO MR AND MRS JAMES SLIMMON,