acid disappointment, gin-horse prudence, and book-worm
philosophy, I hold to be the first of human joys, our dearest
blessing here below! I did not know myself why I liked so much to
loiter behind with her when returning in the evening from our
labors; why the tones of her voice made my heartstrings thrill like
an AEolian harp; and particularly, why my pulse beat such a furious
rattan, when I looked and fingered over her little hand to pick out
the cruel nettle-stings and thistles. Thus with me began love and
poetry, which at times have been my only, and till within the last
twelve months, have been my highest enjoyment."

To a later period than this belongs the episode of Highland Mary, of
which the

"Banks and braes and streams around
The castle of Montgomery"

still whisper to the lovers of Burns, as they keep a solemn tryst with
old-time recollections there.

"How sweetly bloomed the gay green birk,
How rich the hawthorn's blossom,
As underneath their fragrant shade
I clasped her to my bosom!
The golden hours on angel wings
Flew o'er me and my dearie;
For dear to me as light and life
Was my sweet Highland Mary."

It was the sweetest and tenderest romance of his life; and it is with
unbidden tears that the world still remembers that there

"fell death's untimely frost,
That nipt my flower sae early!
Now green's the sod and cauld's the clay
That wraps my Highland Mary."

After a hundred years there are still hearts that take a tender interest
in poor Mary's fate, and that feel for poor Robbie as he wrote:--

"Oh, pale, pale now those rosy lips
I aft hae kissed sae fondly,
And closed for aye the sparkling glance
That dwelt on me sae kindly!
And mouldering now in silent dust
That heart that lo'ed me dearly!
But still within my bosom's core
Shall live my Highland Mary."

In the monument to Burns, near his old home, are deposited the two
volumes of the little pocket Bible which Burns gave to Mary when they
pledged their faith to one another. It is poorly printed on coarse
paper. A verse of Scripture is written within each cover by the poet's
hand, and fastened within is a lock of Mary's golden hair. It is fitting
that some memorial of her should find a place in that splendid monument
which the Scottish people erected to his memory, after his life of
poverty and sorrow had been brought to