contributing; articles from his pen adorned the
pages of _Constable's Edinburgh Magazine_, the _Edinburgh Literary
Journal_, the _Edinburgh Literary Gazette_, the _Christian Herald_,
_Tait's Magazine_, and _Chambers's Journal_. He wrote the letterpress
for Geikie's volume of "Etchings," and furnished songs for George
Thomson's "Musical Miscellany," Blackie's "Book of Scottish Song," and
Robertson's "Whistlebinkie." At the time of his death, he was engaged in
the preparation of a ballad on the subject of the persecutions of the
Covenanters. In 1852, he was placed upon the retired list of revenue
officers, and thereafter established his residence in Edinburgh. He died
at Newington, in that city, on the 11th February 1854, in his 64th year.
His remains were interred in the Southern Cemetery.

Considerably above the middle height, Vedder was otherwise of massive
proportions, while his full open countenance was much bronzed by
exposure to the weather. Of beneficent dispositions and social habits,
he enjoyed the friendship of many of his gifted contemporaries.
Thoroughly earnest, his writings partake of the bold and straightforward
nature of his character. Some of his prose productions are admirable
specimens of vigorous composition; and his poetry, if not characterised
by uniformity of power, never descends into weakness. Triumphant in
humour, he is eminently a master of the plaintive; his tender pieces
breathe a deep-toned cadence, and his sacred lyrics are replete with
devotional fervour. His Norse ballads are resonant with the echoes of
his birth-land, and his songs are to be remarked for their deep pathos
and genuine simplicity.

JEANIE'S WELCOME HAME.

Let wrapt musicians strike the lyre,
While plaudits shake the vaulted fane;
Let warriors rush through flood and fire,
A never-dying name to gain;
Let bards, on fancy's fervid wing,
Pursue some high or holy theme:
Be 't mine, in simple strains, to sing
My darling Jeanie 's welcome hame!

Sweet is the morn of flowery May,
When incense breathes from heath and wold--
When laverocks hymn the matin lay,
And mountain peaks are bathed in gold--
And swallows, frae some foreign strand,
Are wheeling o'er the winding stream;
But sweeter to extend my hand,
And bid my Jeanie welcome hame!

Poor collie, our auld-farrant dog,
Will bark wi' joy whene'er she comes;
And baudrons