His verses to his wife are a delicious little glimpse of Eden; and his “People’s Anthem” rises into somewhat of true grandeur by virtue of simplicity: 

Lord, from Thy blessed throne,
Sorrow look down upon! 
      God save the Poor! 
Teach them true liberty—­
Make them from tyrants free—­
Let their homes happy be! 
      God save the Poor!

The arms of wicked men
Do Thou with might restrain—­
      God save the Poor! 
Raise Thou their lowliness—­
Succour Thou their distress—­
Thou whom the meanest bless! 
      God save the Poor!

Give them stanch honesty—­
Let their pride manly be—­
      God save the Poor! 
Help them to hold the right;
Give them both truth and might,
Lord of all life and light! 
      God save the Poor!

And so we leave Robert Nicoll, with the parting remark, that if the “Poems illustrative of the feelings of the intelligent and religious among the working-classes of Scotland” be fair samples of that which they profess to be, Scotland may thank God, that in spite of temporary manufacturing rot-heaps, she is still whole at heart; and that the influence of her great peasant poet, though it may seem at first likely to be adverse to Christianity, has helped, as we have already hinted, to purify and not to taint; to destroy the fungus, but not to touch the heart, of the grand old Covenant-kirk life-tree.

Still sweeter, and, alas! still sadder, is the story of the two Bethunes.  If Nicoll’s life, as we have said, be a solitary melody, and short though triumphant strain of work-music, theirs is a harmony and true concert of fellow-joys, fellow-sorrows, fellow-drudgery, fellow-authorship, mutual throughout, lovely in their joint-life, and in their deaths not far divided.  Alexander survives his brother John only long enough to write his “Memoirs,” and then follows; and we have his story given us by Mr. M’Combie, in a simple unassuming little volume—­not to be read without many thoughts, perhaps not rightly without tears.  Mr. M’Combie has been wise enough not to attempt panegyric.  He is all but prolix in details, filling up some half of his volume with letters of preternatural length from Alexander to his publishers and critics, and from the said publishers and critics to Alexander, altogether of an unromantic and business-like cast, but entirely successful in doing that which a book should do—­namely, in showing the world that here was a man of like passions with ourselves, who bore from boyhood to the grave hunger, cold, wet, rags, brutalising and health-destroying toil, and all the storms of the world, the flesh, and the devil, and conquered them every one.