And O! forget them never,
The ballad minstrel host,
Their songs shall live for ever,

Although their names be lost.

The Border through, there's not a stream,
Their hills and howes amang,
Unhaunted by the poet's dream,
Unhallowed by his sang.

Songs made in that high fashion,
Moulded to endure,
In love's immortal matrix,

To keep the world pure.

Though foreign sangs we'll no debar,
That's no to say, I ween,
That we forget "Young Lochinvar,"
Or "Jock o' Hazeldean."

Na, na! let ilk ane haud his ain,
The sangs his faither sung,
And let nae coward loon disdain

The dear auld mother tongue.

"A wee bird cam," "My heart is sair," "My Jamie lo'ed me weel,"

"Oor ain folk," and a hunder mair,
Would move a heart o' steel.
They 're written in a sacred scroll,
They're dear to me and you ;
Wi' Border song, my very soul

Is soakit through and through.
There's scarce within your boundary,
A fit I dinna ken,
The triple forkit Eildons,

The quiet Rhymer's Glen.

The Tweed has mony a quiet path,
Where you may tak your dearie;
If by yoursel', just let me tell,

That some o' them are eerie.

Where she taks in the Powsail burn,
Tweed shudders to the deep,
Wi' stories frae that under world,
Where Merlin lies asleep.

And if ye gang through Leader haughs,
Alane, beneath the moon,
Beware the spell, that ance befel
The seer of Ercildoune.

And gin ye walk up Huntly burn,
Just reck this weird o' me,
Tak care ye dinna kiss a witch
Under the Eildon Tree.

But Tweed has mony a bonnie dell,

Her tribute streams amang,

The country's sae delectable,

Ye canna weel gae wrang.

Wherever Border river runs,

And honest men survive, Long may she breed her hardy sons To keep her fame alive.

Then leeze me on the Border,

Leeze me on the land, Known in every nation,

Where freedom makes a stand.

To praise the race that bore us,
Let each ane lend a hand,
And swell the hearty chorus,
"God bless the Borderland."

A Gardening Annual.

WE imagine that there are few readers of THE BORDER MAGAZINE who have not had some experience, at one time or other, of the pleasure and practice of gardening. Those of us who live in the country may still have this pleasure and practice, but to those of us who are pent up in towns and cities, the garden is only a memory. This memory, however, is a dear and affectionate one. It loves to go back upon the past, and it delights to picture the present. It speculates upon what we might be doing at particular seasons of the year, and it is always pleased to fall in with some work which once again brings the garden before us with all its pleasures and associations. Such a work is the one now under notice. It is a popular annual for amateurs, allotment holders, and working gardeners. The editor, Mr. Edward Owen Greening, writes a most interesting introduction, and relates how, while setting out to give form to this fourth issue of his annual, it came into his mind to appeal to a number of public men and women who were known to be garden lovers. "Do they hold it to be merely a pastime for their own refreshment," asks the editor, "or do they believe with me that it is a humanising power for good? if so, they will understand the aim of my annual, and perchance send me some words of welcome sympathy and endorsement."

To this editorial appeal, we have a number of most interesting replies from, amongst others, Mrs. M. Garret Fawcett, George Alexander, Miss M. E. Braddon, C. Hamilton Aidé, Professor Boulger, H. Rider Haggard, Sir J. Lubbock, and many more.

Though occupying but a few pages at the end of the work, there is the Calendar with all its valuable information, as to what to do during each month of the year. This, we think, is the most important part of the annual, for directions are given what to do, and when to do it, in regard to pruning, sowing, and planting. The volume closes with a select list of vegetables suitable for cottage gardens, and hints to be remembered by exhibitors at shows. All this information is contained in a richly illustrated annual of over two hundred pages, and published at the extraordinarily low price of only two pence!

* One and All Gardening, 1899. Edited by Edward Owen Greening, 3 Agar Street, Strand, London, W.C.

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M

ATTHEW ELLIOT and his wife Nance lived at the farm of Clintlee about a mile and a half from Sunnyside. She was a woman whose life was watered with the streams of a true piety, welling up from the deeps of her inmost soul. Her sunny face was welcome wherever she went, both for her own worthiness and from a feeling of sympathy with her, for all who knew Elliot wondered that she had ever linked her life with such a man as he was. Hard featured, his face had the expression of a steel trap, which was justified by his merciless greed. So grasping were his ways, that no servant ever stayed more than one term-many indeed would have broken their engagement had it not been for the kindness of Nance.

They had one son, Robert, who was qualifying for a doctor in Edinburgh. Not at his father's expense however, else he would have remained on the farm, but as he had great natural ability,

he managed by bursaries to fight his own way. He took after his mother, and was as much loved in the village as his father was hated. He had just begun his last session, when his mother was seized with so serious an illness that he had to be sent for. From the very first the village doctor was baffled. And despite all that skill and love could do, she passed away. On the day after the funeral, Robert started for Edinburgh again, and left his father alone. A few hours after his departure the doctor drove up to the farm. He was a cold-blooded man, in whom the finer feelings had been crushed down by devotion to his calling.

"Weel, Matthew," he said, "I've come alang to comfort ye a bit."

"Aye," was the dry response, "it'll be to pay for, I've nae doot. If it's yer bill, ye needna be in a hurry."

The doctor laughed as he said, "Man, I

believe the loss o' yer siller is waur than the loss o' a frien'. D'ye ken I've been wonderin' what was wrang wi' yer wife? It fair bate me, an' there's men I ken cud sune find oot, an' be gled o' the chance."

"It's easy sayin' that, when she's happit in the mools."

"That's just why I say it."

"What d'ye mean?" growled Elliot

The doctor knew his man. He plunged at once into his errand.

"See here, Matthew, ye ken as weel as me, that doctors often find oot in the deid body what'll help them for the livin'. Now, if ye'll gie me Nance I'll take it to the professors in Edinburgh to see what they think. It'll dae yer wife nae ill now-puir body-an' it'll clear up the mystery. Besides, it'll be something in yer pooch."

"Eh! what?"

Elliot had been listening with a quick growing anger as the words fell glibly from the doctor, but that last touch was too much for him.

"Dae ye mean what ye say? An' can it be dune withoot onybody kennin'?"

"Whae's to ken? It's a' yin to the folks whether there's a body in the coffin or no'. The sod hides a' thing. Is't a bargain?"

"Weel-if there's nae risk-an'-hoo muckle am I to get?" stammered Elliot.

The doctor pulled out his pocket-book, and extracted two papers.

"That's yer accoont, squared up an' signed," he said. "Pit it in yer pooch. This other paper is a five pound note. It's yours the meenute she's in my gig."

"Vera weel, I'll dae't," was the answer.

For

In the darkness of the same night the two made their way through the churchyard. In a few minutes they had the deed done. Then while the doctor started on his way to Edinburgh, Matthew went homewards through the fields. That night the terrors of conscience took hold of him. The hours rolled slowly round and every tick of the old clock seemed an accusing voice. Towards morning sleep seized him only to add the torment of dreams. memory held her magic glass before his eyes, and he saw the years of his life come back, each with its tale of self and greed, and all with their message of doom. He woke in a sweat of fear, and rose, pallid and unrefreshed. He wandered about the whole day trying to forget what he had done. But the wicked unnatural deed would not be thus dismissed. He could eat nothing, and his face had such a settled look of despair that the servants began to fear for his reason. When darkness came again, his fear

of loneliness was so great that he burned a light in his room. Ere morning he was beside himself with remorse, and long before any of the others were up, he was out of the house, riding with feverish vigour away to the North.

Dismay and alarm seized on all at the farm, when the master was not to be found. Some thought he had thrown himself into the millpond, and its waters were drawn off. Others thought he might be wandering about the fields, and a search party was hastily got together. Then when it was found that one of the horses was also missing, all gave up the affair as a hopeless mystery. The carrier, however, when he came into the village at night, threw some light on the matter. He said he had met Elliot above Cauldshiels, riding along the North road, like a man demented.

Long ere Matthew reached the end of his journey, his bodily energies were exhausted, but his mind, with its haunting thoughts, was master, and impelled him on. And after all he was too late to recover the body of wife and to avert a worse tragedy. For only a short time before he entered the University buildings, a number of students gathered together in the dissecting room. Use and wont hardens a man's feelings, and they were laughing merrily as they clustered round a table on which lay a body under a cloth. No sooner was the cloth lifted, than one of the students flung up his hands, and with the cry wrung from a broken heart-"Oh God, my mother, my mother," fell back dead into the arms of his companions.

Matthew Elliot was never seen in Sunnyside again. The whole countryside was ablaze with fury when the story leaked out, and the doctor had to leave somewhat hurriedly. Where Elliot wandered to, no one ever knew. The house and the money, for which he had lost his soul, fell to a nephew. Some months after he had taken the place over, the gravedigger made a strange discovery, of which he told no one but the minister. He had gone to dig a grave, and as he passed among the tombs, he saw what he took to be the traces of resurrectionists. Two piles of earth were built up on either side of an opened grave. looked within, and saw the dead body of a man lying face up. Very sadly and quietly the old man filled up the grave, and went to his work. It was the Clintlee lair, and the dead man was Matthew Elliot.

He

Easter Sunday in Traquair kirk.

A HOLIDAY REMINISCENCE.

T is difficult to get the philosophic mind of the Scot to bend to the simple social and religious feasts which prevail in most other countries, but in recent years there has been a decided softening of the national heart in this respect, which we believe will be ultimately for the nation's good. Whether or not the knowledge of the fact that most of the feasts of Christendom are but survivals of the earlier Pagan celebrations, has prevented our people taking kindly to such things, it remains true that it is only in recent times that much attention has been turned to what is held so dear in other lands. Christmas has come to

of the city, I made one of a large number of Borderers who left on Saturday afternoon for the old homes and haunts, which never seem to lose their attraction. As I got in among the familiar hills of Peeblesshire I felt the incense-like perfume of the burning heather, which is as dear to the heart of a Borderer as the peat reek of the shieling is to the Highlander who has been long separated from his native glen. The weather was glorious, making the rather grey landscape radiant with the golden glow of the sunlight. Arrived in old St. Ronan's a few minutes past four p.m., we had to remove our travel stains and attend to the wants of the inner man, yet six p.m. found us standing on the top of the Lee Pen, looking down from that exalted spot on the hills and valleys of our

stay, and now we have Easter claiming our attention more and more. In many of our churches where a few years ago not the slightest reference was made to Easter, special hymns are now sung and suitable portions of Scripture read, followed in many cases by a special

sermon.

Glasgow is a thoroughly commercial city, and the spring holiday, which took the place of the old Fast Day, falling at a different time from the English Easter Monday, was found to be a great drawback to business, so the Magistrates decided to make the holiday on Easter Monday, and it has now become a permanent institution.

Availing myself of the opportunity thus afforded of escaping from the rush and roar

Edinburgh.

beloved Borderland. The glow from the setting sun tempered the breeze, so we could with comfort watch the clouds of white smoke rolling along the hills where the heather was on fire. As we reached the plain and darkness settled down, the red glow of the burning heath became visible, and we could imagine that we were looking on the Easter fires which at the same time were being lighted in the German Fatherland, where this beautiful custom still prevails. To the Borderer, however, these fires are more apt to suggest less peaceful ideas, and the imagination conjures up many a peel tower and mountain top lit up with the blood red glare of the Border beacon.

Easter Sunday morn broke bright and clear, and we decided to walk over to Traquair Kirk.