pardon me, I am so accustomed to think and speak of. her as alive and present with us, that for the moment I thought only of introducing you to each other." There were tears in his eyes, which he brushed quickly away; but his beaming face told me that they were tears of happi ness. I had never seen any of the so-called spiritualistic manifestations, and had not the
slightest faith or interest in them, but I could not deny anything within reason to this man, who had so freely poured out his heart. So I put on my hat, and we saun tered down under the elms that were just shedding their brown leaves. In his room at the hotel I had the first consultation with my astral associate. {To be continued.)
TO BURNS. (Died July 21, 1796.) By John Albert Macy. IN your ane meter, Robbie, lad, In English claithed in Scottish plaid (Though badly claithed, I'm sairly rad) I sing your fame, And wad my hilchin verses add To roose your name. A hunder year hae gaen awa' Sin' ye respondit to the ca' O' Heaven, and gaed the road o' a' Us mortal folk; And there was nane on whom could fa' Your bardie's cloak. Ye died, dear Rabbie, vera soon, Before your life had reachit noon; Yet needless was the mourners' croon, Yer life was lang, For ye hae lived the cent'ry roun' In your sweet sang. Sometimes the turnin' o' the yirth Lea'es men behint and dulls their worth, But we to-day can luve your mirth And sorrow too. And sae we dinna feel the dearth O' men like you. Some ca' ye bad; I dinna think it : Had ye a faut, ye weel might sink it In your soul, deep enow to drink it And not be muddy, Mair than the ocean could be inkit Or fyled bludie. Your verses smack o' new turned clods, O' shepherds real and rustic gods Wha tread auld Scotia's thistled sods By river turns, But maist they savor, by all odds, O' Rabbie Burns.
