Scots, wha hae wi' Wallace bled, Scots, wham Bruce has af ten led;

Welcome to your go ry bed, Or

to glo-rious vic-to- rie.

Now's the day, and now's the hour; See

the front o' bat tle lower;

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

Andante moderato.

Tune, "HEY TUTTI TAITI."

Scots, wha hae wi' Wallace bled, Scots wham Bruce has af ten led;

Now's the day, and now's the hour; See the front of bat

tle lower;

See approach proud Ed-ward's power-Chains and sla ver

This episode affords striking testimony to the correctness of the poet's musical judgment.

That the twin comforters, Poetry and Music, were, notwithstanding the occasional pursuit of wilder pleasures, Burns's chief solace, and hung lovingly about their devotee to the last, is certain, for about May 17, 1796, some two months only before his death, he composed to the tune, "Here's a health to them that's awa, hiney," one of the

sweetest of his lyrics—a real inspiration" Here's a health to ane I loe dear," in honour of Jessie Lewars, a young girl who acted as nurse during his last illness; and even on July 12, only ten days before his death, he composed his last song, "Full well thou knowest I love thee, dear," to the tune, "Rothmurche's Rant."

As we have already shown, Burns did not hesitate to make use of the folk-songs current amongst the peasantry of his time, the productions, as he says, of "bards who very probably owed all their talents to native genius, yet have described the exploits of heroes, the pangs of disappointment, and the meltings of love with such fine strokes of nature their very names (oh, how mortifying to a bard's vanity!) are now buried among the wreck of things that were." Yet, when due credit has been given to his bardic predecessors, it must be admitted that to Burns belongs the honour of having, by his unstinted, self-sacrificing efforts, brought into line the literature and music of Scottish song, thus giving to Scotland a body of lyrics of which her people may well be proud.

BURNS'S LAST SONG.

Air, "ROTHMURCHE'S RANT."

Fair est maid on Dev-on banks, Crystal Dev - on, winding Dev-on

Wilt thou lay that frown a-side, And smile as thou wert wont to do. Full

well thou knowst I love thee dear, Couldst thou to mal - ice lend an

ear, O

did not love exclaim for-bear, Nor use a faith-ful lov

A

VOICES FROM SEA AND SHORE.

BY W. NOEL JOHNSON.

GENUINE love for the Sea and a true appreciation of

its manifold beauties are, like those for the mountains, faculties of modern growth, and may be said to be almost entirely developments of the present century. But although this is so, I believe few persons can be found to-day so unreceptive that they fail, at all times and at all ages, to be impressed by its wilful beauty and playful wantonness, or who turn a deaf ear to its many weird and trembling voices.

Children delight to stand on some isolated rock, around which the snow-capped waves are playing, until at last they are compelled to seize an opportunity to rush to safer ground. Bare-legged, they love to hunt in pools or under weed-clad rocks for any living thing their hands can find. Who has not seen and envied the wonder and delight in the liquid depths of their eyes when, perchance, they have found for the first time some curious or richly-tinted denizen of the deep?

The youth about to begin life's battle looks out upon its bounding line, and dreams of lands unknown, or of adven

tures for which his ardent spirit yearns. Those of ripened years, whose steps are taking a slower pace and who have seen and tried much or most of what their world can give, may find consolation and hope in its boundless and neverceasing activity. As from some high point their eyes gaze upon its vast expanse, and pass from thence to the illimitable sky, so may their minds travel to that infinite. heaven, enclosing all in unfailing majesty, and therein find a sense of repose which the worries of the world can never affect. To all of us, young and old, rich and poor, the healthy and the sick, the sea has become a source of endless interest and attraction.

Let us go down to the beach on a warm, sunny morning, when "the gentleness of heaven broods o'er the deep," to a spot where we may lie in peace and listen to whatever sounds Nature's thousand-stringed lyre may give us. The waves are making for the pebbled shore, with a gentle murmur-so gentle that only the listening and attentive ear can catch their true and sweetest music. They are lapping the broken strand in slow and regular intervals, excepting where some rock standing higher than the general shore first impedes their progress. When an advancing wave receives this check, we hear a double sound-one somewhat like a sigh, the other the tinkling sound of falling drops. The former is caused by the gentle swirl of the wave on each side; the other by the water, which having run part way up or over the projecting rock, anon falls back into the sea. Then follows a pause, only a

second, perhaps, and we hear the wave break along the beach, with a quick rush of gently varying sounds, rising and falling, rising and falling, on and on, until, its force being spent, its voice ceases; it silently retires from the solid earth, and sinks into rest and nothingness. A longer pause, and then we hear an echo, away down the shore on

either hand, of what we have just heard at our feet. This is repeated in softer and ever-falling voice, until at last it is lost in the sound of another wave close by, which repeats ever the same story and the same song. We may sit for hours with ears on the alert to catch the music of Nature's gentle mood, and the same is repeated again and again, changing only with the ebbing and the flowing of the tide, but the same, and ever the same. It is a drowsy melody of gentle murmuring notes, broken now and then with little runs of tinkling tones. It is the song of the sea as it laves the shore with almost the tenderness of a caress, but with a persistence that no hand can stay. It is the heaving of the breast of an infant in sleep, but with a sense of hidden power, as of a giant we all fear to awake.

The scene changes. Athenæ comes from the west on rapid wings, and Neptune answers to her call. She bids the ripples join to form the waves-the waves, the billows. We hear them splashing, rolling, roaring against the hard, defiant rocks, repelling their advance; and the sea and shore in conflict meet. As they break against the iron coast, the flying spray rushes high in the air, to be carried far on the wind; and if by chance our faces meet it, the drops make the skin tingle with their speed. Far out on the horizon we may see a mass of living water rise from the deep. With dazzling summit it advances, laughing, as it were, defiantly, as though no power could stay its course. But on and on it comes to join the general warfare round the coast, and soon is dashed into a thousand parts, and lost among its fellows. As it nears the cliffs we hear its voice of derision and triumph changed into a cry of despair. With a dull hollow roar it bows its head, once proudly raised on high, to make its first and last powerful plunge at its opponent, but only to be driven back by the fast-bound rocks, shattered and undone. But