A FRAGME UJ.

GANE were but the winter-cauld,
And gane were but the snaw,
I could sleep in the wild woods,
Where prim-roses blaw.

Cauld's the snaw at my head,

And cauld at my feet,

And the finger o' death's at my een, Closing them to sleep.

Let nane tell my father,

Or my mither sae dear,

I'll meet them baith in heaven

At the spring o' the year.

THOMAS PRINGLE.

1788—1834.

THOMAS PRINGLE was born in Roxburghshire. He was concerned in the establishment of Blackwood's Magazine, and was the author of "Scenes of Teviotdale," "Ephemerides," and other poems, all of which display fine feeling and a cultivated taste. Although from lameness ill-fitted for a life of hardship, Mr. Pringle, with his father and several brothers, emigrated to the Cape of Good Hope in the year 1820, and there established a little township or settlement named Glen Lynden. The poet afterward removed to Cape Town, the capital; but, wearied with his Caffre-land exile, and disagreeing with the governor, he returned to England and subsisted by his pen. His services were engaged by the African Society as secretary to that body, a situation which he continued to hold until within a few months of his death. In the discharge of its duties, he evinced a spirit of active humanity and an ardent love to the cause to which he was devoted. His last work was a series of African sketches, containing an interesting personal narrative, interspersed with verse.

I SAT at noontide in my tent,
And looked across the Desert dun,
Beneath the cloudless firmament

Far gleaming in the sun.

When from the bosom of the waste
A swarthy Stripling came in haste,
With foot unshod and naked limb;
And a tame springbok followed him.

With open aspect, frank yet bland,

And with a modest mien he stood,

Caressing with a gentle hand

That beast of gentle brood; Then, meekly gazing in my face, Said in the language of his race, With smiling look yet pensive tone, "Stranger-I'm in the world alone!"

"Poor boy!" I said, "thy native home.
Lies far beyond the Stormberg blue:
Why hast thou left it, boy! to roam
This desolate Karroo?"

His face grew sadder while I spoke;
The smile forsook it; and he broke
Short silence with a sob-like sigh,
And told his hapless history.

"I have no home!" replied the boy:
"The Bergenaars-by night they came,
And raised their wolfish howl of joy,
While o'er our huts the flame
Resistless rushed; and aye their yell
Pealed louder as our warriors fell
In helpless heaps beneath their shot:
-One living man they left us not!

"The slaughter o'er, they gave the slain.

To feast the foul-beaked birds of prey; And, with our herds, across the plain

They hurried us away