When the glow-worm lits her elfin lamp,
And the night breeze sweeps the hill;
It's sweet on thy rock-bound shores, Dunoon,
To wander at fancy's will.

Eliza! with thee in this solitude,

Life's cares would pass away,
Like the fleecy clouds over gray Kilmun,
At the wake of early day.

WILLIAM FINLAY.

BORN 1792 DIED 1847.

WILLIAM FINLAY, the son of a weaver, was is a favourable specimen of this class of comborn at Paisley in 1792. At an early age he position. In 1846 Finlay collected a number attended Bell's School, and subsequently the of his pieces, which were published in Paisley Grammar School, where he made such progress in a volume entitled Poems, Humorous and that before he was nine years of age he could | Sentimental. read and translate Cæsar with facility. For twenty years he followed his father's occupation, after which he was employed in a cotton mill at Duntocher. In 1840 he became an assistant in the office of Mr. Neilson, printer, Paisley, with whom he remained for eight years. He afterwards removed to a bleachfield on the Gleniffer Braes, where he died November 5, 1847.

As early as his twentieth year Finlay became known as a composer of verses, and ultimately as a successful writer of humorous and satirical poems, which he contributed to the Paisley and Glasgow journals. Several of the most agreeable of his productions are those in which there is a combination of the descriptive, the humorous, and the kindly, delicately spiced with the satirical. "The Widow's Excuse"

He was fond of music and
society, and yielding to the fascinations of
conviviality he sometimes committed excesses
which he deeply regretted. Frequent and
touching allusions to his besetting sin are to
be met with in his writings, as well as vain
regrets at the time squandered among his
friends, to the neglect perhaps of the necessary
pursuits of a labouring man.
He says-

"While others have been busy, bustling
After wealth and fame,
And wisely adding house to house,
And Bailie to their name;
I, like a thoughtless prodigal,
Have wasted precious time,
And followed lying vanities

To string them up in rhyme."

It has been truthfully said that William Finlay's pictures of the evils of intemperance are equal to Rodger's or Alexander Wilson's.

THE MIGHTY MUNRO.

Come, brawny John Barleycorn, len' me your | With such pleasing persuasion he blaws in your aid,

Though for such inspiration aft dearly I've paid,
Come cram up my noddle, and help me to show,
In true graphic colours, the mighty Munro.

O! could ye but hear him his stories rehearse,
Whilk the like was ne'er heard o', in prose or in

verse,

lug,

Ye wad think that the vera inanimate jug
Whilk stau's on the table, mair brichtly doth

glow

At the wild witching stories o' mighty Munro.

Such care-killing capers-such glorious riggs,
Such cantrin' on cuddies, and cadging' in gigs,

Ye wad laugh till the sweat down your haffets Such rantin,' and jauntin', and shunting, and did flow,

At the matchless, magnificent, mighty Munro.

show,

Could ne'er be displayed but by mighty Munro.

Great Goliath o' Gath, who came out and defied, | And when our voices mingled sweet in music's With the great swelling words o' vainglory and

He was unco obliging, and cam' at my wag,
Whan wi' grief and fatigue I was liken to fag:
'Deed, John couldna want him-for aften I've

seen

His e'e glisten wi' gladness when Robin cam' in.
Then, how can ye wonner I gied him my haun!
Oh, how can ye wonner I gied him my haun;
When I needed his help he was aye at comman';
Then how can ye wonner I gied him my haun?

"At length when John dee't, and was laid in the clay,

My haun it was bare, and my heart it was wae;

I had na a steek, that was black, to put on,
For wark I had plenty wi' guiding o' John;
Now Robin was thrifty, and ought that he wan
He took care o't, and aye had twa notes at com-
man',

And he lent me as muckle as coft a black gown,
Sae hoo can ye wonner he's wearing John's shoon!
Then hoo can ye wonner he's wearing John's
shoon,

My heart-strings wi' sorrow were a' out o' tune;
A man that has worth and twa notes at com-
man',

Can sune get a woman to tak him in haun."

WILLIAM BEATTIE.

BORN 1793-DIED 1875.

taining memoir, published in 1855, of William Henry Bartlett, whom he had assisted in the preparation of several of his illustrated works. Dr. Beattie was well known as the genial entertainer of men of letters, as a contributor to the magazines, as rendering professional services gratuitously to authors and clergymen, and as a hearty lover of his native land. At upwards of fourscore years of age he continued to mingle in the literary society of London, and to indulge in occasional poetic composition. He was much esteemed for his amiable character and ability in his profession. He died at his residence in Portman Square, London, March 17, 1875, aged eighty-two years, and was buried at Brighton by the side of his wife, to whom he was married in the summer of 1822. During the last few years of his life Dr. Beattie amused his leisure hours in the preparation of an autobiography, which it is to be hoped that his literary executors, one of whom is Dr. Robert Carruthers of Inverness, will ere long give to the world. From his residence of half a century in the great metropolis, and his wide acquaintance with many literary and distinguished people, such as Samuel Rogers, Lady Byron, and the Countess of Blessington, it can hardly fail to be an

WILLIAM BEATTIE, M.D., the friend and biographer of Thomas Campbell, was born in the parish of Dalton, Dumfriesshire, Feb. 24, 1793. After receiving the rudiments of his education at the Clarencefield Academy, he entered the University of Edinburgh in 1813, where in 1820 he took the degree of M. D. He then continued his studies in London and on the Continent for ten years, when he commenced practice in London, where he ever afterward continued to reside. While actively pursuing his profession, Dr. Beattie, like the late Sir Henry Holland, found leisure for literary pursuits and foreign travel. His first work, giving an account of a four years' residence in Germany, appeared in 1827, followed by John Huss, a Poem." Dr. Beattie's next poetical publication, "Polynesia, a Poem," celebrated the labours of the missionaries in the South Seas. He is also the author of professional writings, including a Latin treatise on pulmonary consumption. His most popu lar work, and the one most likely to keep his name before the public, is his admirable memoir of the poet Campbell, whose personal friendship he enjoyed for many years. It was through Dr. Beattie's persevering efforts that a statue of Campbell was placed in Westminster Abbey. His latest literary work was an enter-attractive book.

MONODY ON THE DEATH OF THOMAS CAMPBELL.1

Hark! Tis the death-knell, from Bononia's | Retired to pause from intellectual toil;
shore,2

Startles the ear, and thrills in every core!
Pealed from these cliffs, the echoes of our own
Catch, and prolong the melancholy tone,
As fast and far the mournful tidings spread-
"The light is quench'd-the 'Bard of Hope' is
dead!"

Campbell is dead! and Freedom on her wall
Shrieks-as she shrieked at Kosciusko's fall!
And warrior-exiles, as the dirge they hear,
Heave the deep sigh, and drop the bitter tear.

Friends of the poet!-ye to whom belong
The prophet's fire-the mystic powers of song-
On you devolves the sad and sacred trust
To chant the requiem o'er a brother's dust!
His kindred shade demands the kindred tear-
The poets' homage o'er a poet's bier!
While I-who saw the vital flame expire,
And heard the last tones of that broken lyre-
Closed the dim eye, and propp'd the drooping

head

And caught the spirit's farewell as it fled-
With your high notes my lowly tribute blend,
And mourn at once the poet and the friend!

Twice twenty summers of unclouded fame
Had shed their lustre on our poet's name;
And found him ever arm'd, and in the van,
To guard the rights and dignity of man.
On Freedom's altar sacrificing wealth,
To Science consecrating life and health;
In age retaining all the fire of youth-
The love of liberty, the thirst for truth-
He spent his days-improved them as they pass'd,
And still reserved the brightest for the last!

Resign'd the well-fought field, with honours rife,
To trim with frugal hand the lamp of life;
To solve the mystic writing on the wall-
Adjust his mantle ere he let it fall;
Weigh life's great question-commune with his
heart,

Then, hail the welcome signal and depart.

And here-tho' health decay'd-his taste still

warm

Conferr'd on all it touch'd a classic charm;
Dispell'd the gloom, and peopled every shade
With forms and visions brilliantly portray'd.
Thoughts well directed-reason well applied-
Philosophy with cheering faith allied—
Inspired a fresh and healthful tone of mind
That braced the spirit as the body pined;
While freedom strew'd her laurels at his feet,
And song and science dignified retreat.

But soon life's current darken'd as it flow'd;
Gladness forsook the poet's new abode;
His hearth grew sad, and swiftly pass'd away
The cheerful evening of his well-spent day!
The books, the lyre, the lov'd Achaian strain,
That charm'd the fancy, could not lull the pain,
That now, in fatal ambush, hour by hour
Bore witness to the fever's wasting power.—
Yet pain, depression, anguish never wrung
Complaint, regret, or murmur from his tongue:
Or if amidst his pain, a tear, a sigh
Rose on his lip, or trembled in his eye,-
"Twas when sweet memories o'er his spirit came,
And his lips mov'd to some beloved name,
Which, while the soul was yearning to depart,
Still kept its mansion sacred in his heart!-
But else, unmov'd, he watch'd the close of life-
Brac'd on his armour for the final strife;

'Twas here where Godfrey's sullen rampart Resolv'd in death, to fall beneath his shield,

frowns3

O'er wave-worn cliffs and cultivated downs;
Where the cool breeze a bracing freshness throws,
Where shade and solitude invite repose;

And whispering elms, in soothing cadence, wave
O'er Churchill's death-bed and Le Sage's grave
'Twas here our poet-on the stranger's soil,

Conqueror-not captive-to resign the field.

The hour arriv'd: the star of Hope arose
To light her poet to his last repose!
Life ebbed apace: the seraph, stooping down,
Illumed his couch, and showed the future crown.
"Welcome!" she whispered-"welcome be the
hour

That clothes my votary with celestial power! 1 Written at Boulogne shortly after the poet's decease, Enough hast thou achieved of earthly fame, and now published for the first time.-ED.

2 Bononia Gallia-the Gessoriacum of antiquity, or Boulogne-sur-Mer of the present day, "Gessoriacum quod nunc Bononia,"

3 Godfrey (of Bouillon), whom history represents as having been born in the citadel of Boulogne, not Bouillon in Lorraine.

4 Churchill the English Juvenal-died at Boulogne

To gild the patriot's and the poet's name;
Thou hast not pandered to a vicious age,
Nor left thy sins recorded in thy page;

in 1764; and Le Sage, the author of Gil Blas, in 1747: "Ici est mort l'Auteur de Gil Blas, 1747," is engraved on a stone over the door of his house.

But, kindred with the source from which it came, | He loved thee, Poland! with unchanging love;
Thy song hath minister'd to virtue's flame.
And now-t
w-that longer life were lengthened pain-
In brighter realms revive the hallowed strain;
That heaven-born genius to thy keeping given,
Pure and unsullied, render back to heaven!"
So said the radiant herald waved her torch,
And, beckoning onward, showed the dismal
porch-