A Native Hindoo in his Cobble, during the Floods at Nattore

Land of crows, and kites, and frogs,
Land of pups and pariah dogs,

Land of cats, and rats, and mice,

Land of curry and of rice,

Land of lawyers without wigs,

Land of political intrigues,

Land of riches and distress,

Land of hovels-palaces!

Land of ladies and of dancing,

Land of singular financing,

Land of browns, and blacks, and whites

All deprived of their just rights,
Land of disappointment, where

All the ills of life we share,
Where the people called elect
Milk, and wine, and oil expect,
Where another class doth find
Misery and want combined;

While others, should they chance to live,
Take such things as chance may give.

But suppose we put in rhyme

All the blessings of the clime,

Thunder, lightning, storms, and rains,

Cholera, rheumatic pains,

Head-ach, heart-ach, stomach-ach,

All disorders man can take,

Doctors recipes and pills,
Horror at our monthly bills,
Burning sun and scorching winds,
Bungolows with close-shut blinds,
Breath exhausted, heat oppressive,

Liver twinges-most expressive,

Hope deferred our hearts to blight,

Injuries we dare not right,

Damp that blots, and spoils, and stains,

Nora's book for all my pains,

Such is India-such its plan,

Oh, who would live in Hindoostan?

THE DREAM OF CALDERWOOD.

SWEET vision of life's morning stay,

Let fitful fancy have her way,

While back to Calderwood I stray

Through glade and glen so green.

Scene to happy childhood dear,

Friends whose smile that scene could cheer,

Sleep's witching wand will waft you near, Though oceans roll between.

From yonder cliffs, see, Calder throws
His foaming flood, now gently flows
Where hawthorn sweet, with many a rose,
Hung round the rock is seen.

Bright thoughts of happy moments past
Like sunbeams fall-they fade as fast!
Yet o'er the gloom a ray they cast,
To light life's dreary dream.

Still may they beam on yon gray towers,
Where careless fled my early hours;
Still seek the tangled woodbine bowers,
By Calder's wimpling stream.

Stay, lovely vision, yet a while,
The wanderer's weary heart beguile,

And, for a moment, try to wile

It back to what has been!

J. A. PRINGLE.