dauntless brave;
Let the brave like roes come bounding
On to glory or a grave.

Let your laurels never-fading,
Gleam like your unconquer'd glaive;
Where your thistle springs triumphant,
There let freedom's banner wave.

JOHN YOUNGER.

John Younger, the shoemaker of St Boswells, and author of the Prize
Essay on the Sabbath, has some claim to enrolment among the minstrels of
his country. He was born on the 5th July 1785, at Longnewton village, in
the parish of Ancrum, and county of Roxburgh. So early as his ninth
year, he began to work at his father's trade of a shoemaker. In 1810 he
married, and commenced shoemaking in the village of St Boswells, where
he has continued to reside. Expert in his original profession, he has
long been reputed for his skill in dressing hooks for Tweed angling; the
latter qualification producing some addition to his emoluments. He holds
the office of village postmaster.

A man of superior intellect and varied information, John Younger enjoys
the respect of a wide circle of friends. His cottage is the resort of
anglers of every rank; and among his correspondents he enumerates the
most noted characters of the age. Letter writing is his favourite mode
of recreation, and he has preserved copies of his letters in several
interesting volumes. He has published a poetical _brochure_ with the
title, "Thoughts as they Rise;" also a "Treatise on River Angling." His
Prize Essay on the Sabbath, entitled, "The Light of the Week," was
published in 1849, and has commanded a wide circulation. Of his lyrical
effusions we have selected the following from his MS. collection.

ILKA BLADE O' GRASS GETS ITS AIN DRAP O' DEW.

Oh, dinna be sae sair cast down,
My ain sweet bairnies dear,
Whatever storms in life may blaw,
Take nae sic heart o' fear.
Though life's been aye a checker'd scene
Since Eve's first apple grew,
Nae blade o' grass has been forgot
O' its ain drap o' dew.

The bonnie flowers o' Paradise,
And a' that 's bloom'd sinsyne,
By bank an' brae an' lover's bower,
Adown the course o' time,
Or 'neath the gardener's fostering hand,--
Their annual bloom renew,
Ilk blade o' grass has had as weel
Its ain sweet drap o' dew.

The oaks and cedars of the earth
May toss their arms in air,
Or bend beneath the sweeping blast
That strips the forest bare;