kept well to the windward. The boy hailed her by the speaking trumpet and by waving his hat-signals which were observed by the crew while the boat bore under the stern of the sloop, and siezing a rope thrown out by the captain, they soon climbed on deck, and gave thanks for their deliverance, for their destruction had been inevitable if this chance had not fallen in the way. The elder of our heroes solicited a ship's warp with which to tow the boat, and the assistance of his crew to strike the mast, upset the water casks, and make such other dispositions as were necessary. They were all Scots, and neither master or men gave their aid with that alacrity or willingness which sweetens a favour or renders an obligation but slightly burdensome. Neither did the crew offer greater hospitality to the little shipboy, than their master accorded to his companion. Exhausted by the anxieties and fatigues of twelve long hours, drenched with rain and spray, and benumbed with cold, the elder rapidly traversed the deck in the hope of producing by exercise what his entertainers had denied.

The sloop was bound for London, and the captain not unfrequently cheered himself with certain prognostics of a northerly wind, to the no small discomfort of the luckless passengers. Necessity at length compelled him to do what the commander had not thought proper to suggest, and taking down his stock of provisions, our elder voyager seated himself before the cabin fire,-an apartment whose filthiness betokened idleness in the extreme. The captain shortly followed, and drinking a glass of rum, wished a good land-fall to his passengers, a wish, it hardly need be stated, heartily responded by those to whom it was addressed. Having unpacked the little basket in search of the rum, he took care to exhibit its contents-a procedure which did not fail in producing a manifest improvement in the behaviour of the surly captain, who, with our hero, seated themselves on the floor, and made a hearty meal of tongue, ham, and veal. Inviting the mate to sup with his little companion, the twain ascended on deck.

It was ten o'clock, and the thickening gleams of twilight were rapidly succeeded by the gloominess of night. The wind continued violent, and whistled through the blocks in melancholy cadence, sounding in perfect unison with his present state of mind. They were so far southward as the Farn Islands, and about two miles without them, but atmospheric appearances by no means indicated a speedy realization of the captain's predictions. On the contrary, the old weather-beaten cook as he looked up to the windward, declared with no small confidence that it looked like a southerly wind. At halfpast ten all hands were called up to take another reef in the mainsail, and our friend availed himself of this opportunity of getting the boat

hauled up and baled out,--then sending the boy down to the cabin fire, he wrapped himself up in a watch coat, and seating himself by the companion, gave way to such reflections as the circumstances seemed to suggest,

"Life's fairest views are but an airy dream,

Frail as the passing cloud, or bubble on the stream."

The increasing gale precluded any hope of the voyage terminating where it begun, exclusive of the great probability which existed of landing in the Thames instead of the Tweed. The wind was at the south west, and blew with unabated violence, and the night was uncommonly dark. The beautiful light on the Farn Islands was now on the weather side, and as its revolutions alternately exhibited light and shade, so also did it form a fitting illustration of his late adventures. A thickening rain, joined to the persuasions of the watch, induced him to quit the deck, and stretching himself on the cabin floor, with some old jackets for a pillow, and imploring the protection of heaven, soon found oblivion to his cares in a sound sleep. He had enjoyed the bliss of forgetfulness only two hours, when he was awoke by the old cook who said that the master wanted to speak to him on deck. Unrefreshed, he arose stiff and pained-the wind had now wore round to the SSE., the morning was dark and rainy, and the captain was afraid of losing the boat. The vessel had been standing in for some hours, and the heaviness of the sea, certainly justified the master's apprehensions. As he expected to fetch in a little to the northward of the islands, he hoped to find less sea and have the

advantage of daylight, to get the boat baled out. He then invited the captain below to partake of the contents of his flask, and sent the old cook to serve out glasses to all the hands. This brawny Caledonian, full six feet in height, wore a beard of a fortnight's growth, and his ponderous sea boots, petticoats, trowsers, tattered wig, and his indescribable gale-beat hat, tied under his grisly chin, presented a figure, which, without much effort of imagination, might have passed for a genius of the deep! Again our friend adjusted his humble couch, and notwithstanding the disquietude and gloom which had all but excluded hope, he was soon again in the arms of sleep, and was once more awakened by his little companion, with the news of "less wind and fair weather." He flew with alacrity on deck and viewed the fineness of the morning with gratitude and delight. As the vessel neared Holy Island, our voyagers were busily engaged in making preparations for landing: a little after four A.M. they baled out the boat, and after handing their little provisions into it, thanked the master for his assistance, and making a slight remuneration to the crew, they again committed themselves to the mercy of the sea. At six they were abreast of Emmanuel Head, the scene of the commencement of all their troubles, and at half-past ten, without meeting with any extraordinary occurrence, they got safely into Berwick, and landing on the quay, our hero soon forgot his troubles in the hearty welcome of his friends.

The lady wept, an some did blame,
She didnae blame the bonny dow,
But sair she blamed Sir David Graeme,
Because the knight had broke his vow.

For he had sworn by the starns sae bright,
An' by their bed on the dewy green,
To meet her there on St. Lambert's night,
Whatever dangers lay between.

To risk his fortune an' his life

In bearing her frae her father's towers,

To gie her a' the lands o' Dryfe,

An' the Enzie-holm wi' its bonnie bowers.

The day arrived, the evening came,
The lady looked wi' wistful ee;
But, O, alas! her noble Graeme

Frae e'en to morn she didna see.

An' she has sat her down an' grat;
The warld to her like a desert seemed;
An' she wyted this, an' she wyted that,
But o' the real cause never dreamed.

The sun had drunk frae Keilder fell,
His beverage o' the morning dew;
The deer had crouched her in the dell,
The heather oped its bells o' blue;

The lambs were skipping on the brae,
The laverock hiche attour them sung,

An' aye she hailed the jocund day,

Till the wee, wee tabors o' heaven rung.

The lady to her window hied,

An' it opened owre the banks o' Tyne, "An', O, alak!" she said, an' sighed, "Sure ilka breast is blyth but mine!

Where hae ye been, my bonnie dow,
That I hae fed wi' the bread an' wine?

As roving a' the country through,

O, saw ye this fause knight o' mine ?"

The dow sat down on the window tree,
An' she carried a lock o' yellow hair;
Then she perched upon that lady's knee,
An' carefully she placed it there.

"What can this mean? This lock's the same
That aince was mine. Whate'er betide,
This lock I gae to Sir David Graeme,
The flower of a' the Border side.

"He might hae sent it by squire or page,
An' no letten the wily dow steal't awa;
'Tis a matter for the lore and counsels of age,
But the thing I canna read ata'."

The dow flew east, the dow flew west,
The dow she flew far ayont and fell,
An' back she came, wi' panting brest,
Ere the ringing o' the castle bell.

She lighted ahiche on the holly-tap,

An she cried, "cur-dow," an' fluttered her wing; Then flew into that lady's lap,

An' there she placed a diamond ring.

"What can this mean? This ring is the same
That aince was mine. What'er betide,

This ring I gae to Sir David Graeme,
The flower of a' the Border side.

"He sends me back the love tokens true!

Was ever poor maiden perplexed like me? 'Twould seem he's reclaimed his faith an' his vow, But all is fauldit in mystery."

An' she has sat her down an' grat,
The world to her a desart seemed;
An' she wyted this, an' she wyted that,
But o' the real cause never dreamed.

When, lo! Sir David's trusty hound,

Wi' humpling back, an' a waefu' ee, Came cringing in an' lookit around,

But his look was hopeless as could be.