50 NIMROUS NORTHERN TOUR. 



lady that Scotland ever produced. Moreover, her name and 

 character are worthy of being recorded in a sporting magazine 

 as the original patroness of the celebrated archery meetings for 

 which the aristocratic neighbourhoods of Wrexham, Chester, 

 Ellesmere, and Oswestry have been for at least forty years so 

 signal. 



The late Lady Cunliffe was the mother of ten children, and, 

 had her life been spared only a fortnight longer, would have seen 

 the anniversary of her fiftieth wedding day ! ! The anticipation 

 of this event, however, gave rise to an incident, which, if it had 

 been followed up to its conclusion, would have given birth to a 

 scene of more than ordinary interest, and to which it would 

 perhaps be difficult to find a parallel in domestic life. A friend 

 of the family accidentally put into her ladyship's hand the follow- 

 ing lines, not only beautifully written by one from her own 

 country, and therefore more likely to find the road straight to 

 her heart, but so closely in association with her own situation 

 at the moment, that she at once declared that, if she lived to see 

 it, her husband should read them to her in the presence of all 

 her children on the approaching anniversary, which she empha- 

 tically called her "golden day" 



Thou kens, Mary Hay, that I loo 7 thee weel, 

 My ain auld wifie sae kindly an' leal* ; 

 Then what garst thee stand wi' a tear in thine e'e 

 And aye look sae waej when thou lookest on me. 



Dost thou miss, Mary Hay, the young bloom on my cheek, 

 With the hair hinging round, sae jetty and sleak ; 

 For the snaw's on my head and the roses are gane 

 Since that day o' days I first ca'd thee mine ain. 



Or grieves thou the loss of mine eye's youthful fire, 

 And the wild song I sung, which thou used to admire I 

 For I'm darksome an' cauld now the winter is come, 

 And the soft sound of music within me is dumb. 



But tho' that the fire of mine e'e be dim 

 And age, wi' its frost, stiffens every limb, 

 Thou kens that my heart has no frost for thee, 

 For summer returns at the blink of thine e'e. 



The miser haulds hard, and still harder, his gold ; 

 The ivy grasps firmer the tree when it's old ; 



* Loyal. t Makes. J Sad, 



