Song is not dead, although to-day Men tell us everything is said. There yet is something left to say… Song is not dead. While still the evening sky is red…

The city once again doth wear Her wonted dress of winter’s bride… Her mantle woven of misty air, With saffron sunlight faintly dyed… She sits above the seething tide,

It is the Police Commissioners, All on a winter’s day; And they to prove the town water Have set themselves away. They went to the north, they went…

There was a time when it was count… To be a patriot—whether by the zea… Of peaceful labour for the country… Or by the courage in her cause to… FOR KING AND COUNTRY was a…

from the unpublished remains of Ed… In the oldest of our alleys, By good bejants tenanted, Once a man whose name was Wallace… William Wallace’€”reared his head…

Lost Youth, come back again! Laugh at weariness and pain. Come not in dreams, but come in tr… Lost Youth. Sweetheart of long ago,

As I was walking down the street A week ago, Near Henderson’s I chanced to mee… A man I know. His name is Alexander Bell,

Come back to St. Andrews! Before… You said you would be wretched whe… The East sands and the West sands… Come back to St. Andrews—St. And… Oh, it’s dreary along South Stree…

Beloved Peeler! friend and guide And guard of many a midnight reele… None worthier, though the world is… Beloved Peeler. Thou from before the swift four-wh…

So in the village inn the poet dwe… His honey-dew was gone; only the p… His cousin’s work, her empty labou… But still he sniffed it, still a f… And lingered all about the broider…

Every critic in the town Runs the minor poet down; Every critic—don’t you know it? Is himself a minor poet.

My lamp is out, my task is done, And up the stair with lingering fe… I climb. The staircase clock stri… Good night, my love! good night, m… My solitary room I gain.

Two old St. Andrews men, after a separation of nearly thirty years, meet by chance at a wayside inn. They interchange experiences; and at length one of them, who is an admirer of Mr. Sw...

How often have the critics, traine… To look upon the sky Through telescopes securely chaine… Forgot the naked eye. Within the compass of their glass

Blue, blue is the sea to-day, Warmly the light Sleeps on St. Andrews Bay— Blue, fringed with white. That’s no December sky!