To the patriotic Scot there is somewhat affecting in the echoes of very rich Scots which reach us across the African continent and "seas that row between." To speak for myself, I am never so happy as when I cross the Tweed at Berwick from the South, or go on the links at Wimbledon Common, and hear the accents (for there are several, including that peculiar to Gourock) of my native tongue. These observes are quite genuine, and come from a Scot whose critics in England banter him on his patriotism, while his critics in Scotland revile him as rather more unpatriotic than the infamous Sir John Menteith, who whummled the bannock. The Scots of Mr. Murray is so pure and so rich that it may puzzle some patriots whose sentiments are stronger than their linguistic acquirements. The imitations of Horace are among the best extant, and Mr. Murray might take Professor Blackie's advice, trying how far the most rustic idylls of Theocritus, say the "Oaristus," can be converted into the Doric of the Lowlands. If one may have favourites, among these is "The Packman," "The Howe of Alford," "The Hint o' Hairst," "The Antiquary," and "The Lettergae." Does any Lettergae survive in this age of guilt when the harmonium pervades the kirks which our fathers purified from the Romish organ? Indeed, the poems beget a certain melancholy. "I am never merry when I hear sweet music" from a world that is dead or dying, the world of Scott and Hogg, the world that knew not polluted streams, and railways, and motor cars, and, worst of abominations, the gramophone.

In a far-off land Mr. Murray retains the sentiment of that forgotten time, and is haunted by the scent of peat and bog myrtle, the sound of old words that now are strange, the poverty that was not the mate of discontent. Enfin he has the secret of the last of the Picts, if indeed he was the last, if they do not dwell with "The Secret Commonwealth of Elves, Fauns, and Fairies" in the secret places of the hills. Poetry more truly Scots than that of Mr. Murray is no longer written—was not written even by Mr. Stevenson, about "a' the bonny U. P. Kirks," for in his verses there was a faint twinkle of the spirit of mockery.

ANDREW LANG.

HAMEWITH

Hot youth ever is a ranger,

New scenes ever its desire;

Cauld Eild, doubtfu' o' the stranger,

Thinks but o' haudin' in the fire.

Midway, the wanderer is weary,

Fain he'd be turnin' in his prime

Hamewith—the road that's never dreary,

Back where his heart is a' the time.

THE ALIEN

In Afric's fabled fountains I have panned the golden sand—

Caught crocodile with baviaan for bait—

I've fished, with blasting gelatine for hook an' gaff an' wand,

An' lured the bearded barbel to his fate:

But take your Southern rivers that meander to the sea,

And set me where the Leochel joins the Don,

With eighteen feet of greenheart an' the tackle running free—

I want to have a clean fish on.

The eland an' the tsessebe I've tracked from early dawn,

I've heard the roar of lions shake the night,

I've fed the lonely bush-veld camp on dik-kop an' korhaan,

An' watched the soaring vulture in his flight;

For horn an' head I've hunted, yet the spoil of gun and spear,

My trophies, I would freely give them all,

To creep through mist an' heather on the great red deer—

I want to hear the black cock call.

In hot December weather when the grass is caddie high

I've driven clean an' lost the ball an' game,

When winter veld is burned an' bare I've cursed the cuppy lie—

The language is the one thing still the same;

For dongas, rocks, an' scuffled greens give me the links up North,

The whins, the broom, the thunder of the surf,

The three old fellows waiting where I used to make a fourth—

I want to play a round on turf.

I've faced the fremt, its strain an' toil, in market an' in mine,

Seen Fortune ebb an' flow between the "Chains,"

Sat late o'er starlit banquets where the danger spiced the wine,

But bitter are the lees the alien drains;

For all the time the heather blooms on distant Benachie,

An' wrapt in peace the sheltered valley lies,

I want to wade through bracken in a glen across the sea—

I want to see the peat reek rise.

The Whistle

THE WHISTLE