devoted to literary pursuits. Along
with his friend, Mr John Grieve, the future patron of the Ettrick
Shepherd, he made a visit to the forest bard, attracted by the merit of
his compositions, long prior to his public recognition as a poet. He
established a literary association in his native town, entitled, "The
Shakspeare Club;" which, at its annual celebrations, was graced by the
presence of men of genius and learning. To the _Scots' Magazine_ he
became a poetical contributor early in the century. A man of elegant
tastes and Christian worth, Mr Bald was a cherished associate of the
more distinguished literary Scotsmen of the past generation. During the
period of half a century, he has conducted business in his native town
as a timber merchant and brick manufacturer. His brother, Mr Robert
Bald, is the distinguished mining engineer.

THE LILY OF THE VALE.[7]

TUNE--_'Ye banks and braes o' bonny Doon.'_

The lily of the vale is sweet,
And sweeter still the op'ning rose,
But sweeter far my Mary is
Than any blooming flower that blows.
Whilst spring her fragrant blossoms spreads,
I'll wander oft by Mary's side;
And whisper saft the tender tale,
By Forth, sweet Forth's meandering tide.

There will we walk at early dawn,
Ere yet the sun begins to shine;
At eve oft, too, the lawn we'll tread,
And mark that splendid orb's decline.
The fairest, choicest flowers I'll crop,
To deck my lovely Mary's hair;
And while I live, I vow and swear,
She'll be my chief--my only care.

FOOTNOTES:

[7] This song was originally Published in the _Scots' Magazine_ for
October 1806. In the "Book of Scottish Song," it has been attributed to
Allan Ramsay.

HOW SWEET ARE THE BLUSHES OF MORN.

How sweet are the blushes of morn,
And sweet is the gay blossom'd grove;
The linnet chants sweet from the thorn,
But sweeter's the smile of my love.

Awhile, my dear Mary, farewell,
Since fate has decreed we should part;
Thine image shall still with me dwell,
Though absent, you'll reign in my heart.

But by winding Devon's green bowers,
At eve's dewy hour as I rove,
I'll grieve for the pride of her flowers,
And the pride of her maidens, my love.

The music shall cease in the grove,
Thine absence the linnet shall mourn;
But the lark, in strains bearing love,
Soft war