his juvenile
escapades, and begged their forgiveness; and he did not hesitate to
reprove Burns for the levity too apparent in some of his poems. To his
aged father, who survived till the year 1816, he sent remittances of
money as often as he could afford; and at much inconvenience and
pecuniary sacrifice, he established the family of his brother-in-law on
a farm in the States. He was sober even to abstinence; and was guided in
all his transactions by correct Christian principles. In person, he was
remarkably handsome; his countenance was intelligent, and his eye
sparkling. He never attained riches, but few Scotsmen have left more
splendid memorials of their indomitable perseverance.[42] FOOTNOTES:

[41] The "Songs of Scotland," by Allan Cunningham, vol. i. p. 247.

[42] The most complete collection of his poems appeared in a volume
published under the following title:--"The Poetical Works of Alexander
Wilson; also, his Miscellaneous Prose Writings, Journals, Letters,
Essays, &c., now first Collected: Illustrated by Critical and
Explanatory Notes, with an extended Memoir of his Life and Writings, and
a Glossary." Belfast, 1844, 18vo. A portrait of the author is prefixed.

CONNEL AND FLORA.

Dark lowers the night o'er the wide stormy main,
Till mild rosy morning rise cheerful again;
Alas! morn returns to revisit the shore,
But Connel returns to his Flora no more.

For see, on yon mountain, the dark cloud of death,
O'er Connel's lone cottage, lies low on the heath;
While bloody and pale, on a far distant shore,
He lies, to return to his Flora no more.

Ye light fleeting spirits, that glide o'er the steep,
Oh, would ye but waft me across the wild deep!
There fearless I'd mix in the battle's loud roar,
I'd die with my Connel, and leave him no more.

MATILDA.

Ye dark rugged rocks, that recline o'er the deep,
Ye breezes, that sigh o'er the main,
Here shelter me under your cliffs while I weep,
And cease while ye hear me complain.

For distant, alas! from my dear native shore,
And far from each friend now I be;
And wide is the merciless ocean that roars
Between my Matilda and me.

How blest were the times when together we stray'd,
While Phoebe shone silent above,
Or lean'd by the border of Cartha's green side,
And talk'd the whole evening of love!

Around us all nature lay wrapt up in