Familiar as a voice of home,

Their every tone of glee.

They tell of birds in other climes

In richest plumage gay,

With gorgeous tints that far outshine

An eastern king's array.
Strangers to song! more dear to me
The linnet, modest gray,
That pipes among the yellow broom

His wild, heart-witching lay.

More dear than all their shining hues,

The wells of glee that lie

In throstle's matchless mottled breast
Or merle's of ebon dye.

And though a lordling's wealth were mine,
In some far sunny spot,

My heart could never own a home
Where minstrel birds were not.

Sweet wilding birds of Scotland,

I loved ye when a boy,

And to my soul your names are linked
With dreams of vanished joy.

And I could wish, when death's cold hand
Has stilled this heart of mine,
That o'er my last low bed of earth
Might swell your notes divine.

TO THE CLYDE.

O'er all the streams that Scotia pours
Deep murmuring to the sea,

With warmest love my heart still turns,
Fair, winding Clyde, to thee!

Through scenes where brightest beauty smiles,

Thy placid waters glide,

Linked to a thousand mem'ries sweet,

My own, my native Clyde!

Let others love the tangled Forth,
Or mountain-shadowed Spey;

The Don, the Dee, wake others' glee,
Fair Tweed, or queenly Tay;

From all their charms of wood or wild,
I ever turn with pride

To where the golden apple gleams.
On thy green banks, sweet Clyde!

It is not that thy heaving breast

A kingdom's wealth has borne,

That pregnant barques, a gorgeous crowd,
Thy spacious ports adorn;
'Tis not thy cities fair to see,
Thy castled homes of pride,
VOL. II.-C c

That knit this heart in love to thee, Thou proudly rolling Clyde!

An heir of poverty and toil,

Thy wealth to me is naught,
Yet thou hast treasures to my soul,

With deepest pleasure fraughtThe homes of living, and the graves

Of parted friends are thineThe loving hearts, the tried, the true, Bright gems of sweet "Langsyne."

Oh! honied were my joys, I ween,

When 'side thee, lovely stream! Life dawned upon my wakening soul, Bright as a poet's dream,

Then daisied fields to me were wealth,

Thy waters were a sea,

And angel voices in the clouds
The larks' far showers of glee.

How loved I, on thy pebbled marge,
To watch the minnows play!
Or on thy rippled breast to set

My tiny barque away!

Or chasing wide the painted fly,
Along thy skirt of flowers,
While on the swallow-wings of joy
Flew past the laughing hours.

Each smiling season then had charms-
Spring came with buds and flowers,
And wild-bird nests, with bead-like eggs,

Leaf-screened in woodland bowers;

Summer brought aye the rushy cap,

The dandelion chain;

While hips and haws, like gems were strewn O'er autumn's yellow train.

But years of mingled weal and woe,

Like bubbles on thy wave,

Have passed: and friends are scatter'd now,

Or slumbering in the grave.

The dust of time has dimmed my soul,
And 'neath vile passion's sway,

Its freshness and its bloom have passed
For evermore away.

Yet still I love thee, gentle Clyde;

For aye, as with a spell,

Thou bring'st me back the cherished forms

In mem'ry's haunts that dwell.

Like sunshine on the distant hills,
Life's early joys I see:

And from the brightness of the past,
I dream what heaven may be.

Dear stream, long may thy hills be green,
Thy woods in beauty wave,

TO OCTOBER.

Gorgeous are thy woods, October!
Clad in glowing mantles scar;
Brightest tints of beauty blending,
Like the west, when day's descending,
Thou'rt the sunset of the year.

Beauteous are thy rowan trees, glowing
With their beads of coral dye;
Beauteous are thy wild-rose bushes,
Where the hip in ripeness blushes,

Like a maid whose lover's nigh.

Sweet to see thy dark eyes peeping

From the tangled blackthorn bough, Sweet thy elder's purple fruitage, Clustering o'er the woodland cottage;

Sweet thy hawthorn's crimson glow. Fading flowers are thine, October!

Droopeth sad the sweet bluebell. Gone the blossoms April cherishedViolet, lily, rose, all perished

Fragrance fled from field and dell. Songless are thy woods, October!

Save when redbreast's mournful lay Through the calm gray morn is swelling, To the list ning echoes telling

Tales of darkness and decay.

Saddest sounds are thine, October!
Music of the falling leaf
O'er the pensive spirit stealing,
To its inmost depths revealing;

"Thus all gladness sinks in grief."

I do love thee, drear October!
More than budding, blooming Spring,
Hers is hope, delusive smiling,
Trusting hearts to grief beguiling;

Mem'ry loves thy dusky wing.

Joyous hearts may love the summer,

Bright with sunshine, song, and flower; But the heart whose hopes are blighted, In the gloom of woe benighted,

Better loves thy kindred bower. 'Twas in thee, thou sad October!

Death laid low my bosom flower.
Life hath been a wintry river
O'er whose ripple gladness never

Gleameth brightly since that hour.
Hearts would fain be with their treasure,
Mine is slumb'ring in the clay;
Wandering here alone, uncheery,
Deem't not strange this heart should weary
For its own October day.

ALEXANDER M'LACHLAN, a well-known ScotoCanadian poet, was born at Johnstone, in Renfrewshire, August 12, 1818. His father, Charles M'Lachlan, was a mechanic and the author of some very respectable verses. In 1820, in company with a brother, he went to Canada and purchased land, which he partially cleared, and set out on his return to Scotland for his family, but died on the way, leaving a wife and four children unprovided for. Alexander, the only son, was sent by the mother as soon as he was able to work to the cotton factory, where the pittance which he earned helped to support the family. But he soon grew weary of the thirteen hours' daily imprisonment in the factory, and left it to become a tailor's apprentice. At this time he devoted all his leisure hours to reading Burns, and ere long became passionately fond of poetry and oratory. He went far and near to hear celebrated speakers; and he says in a letter to us dated Oct. 31, 1865, "I still recollect the feelings of rapture with which I listened to Chalmers and O'Connell." He soon began to try his powers as a poet and also as a public speaker.

In 1841 M Lachlan removed to Canada and settled on a farm, but for many years he has followed the vocation of a lecturer on literary and other topics. In 1862 he was sent by the Canadian government to set before his countrymen in Scotland the advantages to be gained by emigrating to Canada. From his friends and admirers in Johnstone he received a public ovation, and was at the same time presented with an elegant walking-stick, bearing this inscription: "Presented to Alexander M ́Lachlan, Esq., Poet, by his friends at a public supper given him in Johnstone, his native town, as a mark of respect, and as a memorial of his visit to this country from Canada. Nov. 14, 1862." Twelve years later he was again entertained by his fellow-townsmen, and received a handsome gift of books.

M'Lachlan's first volume, entitled Poems, chiefly in the Scottish Dialect, was published in Canada in 1855. Three years later another volume with the title Lyrics appeared, followed in 1861 by The Emigrant, and other Poems. His latest publication, a handsome octavo volume entitled Poems and Songs, appeared in 1874.

I winna gae back to my youthfu' haunts,
For they are nae langer fair-

The spoiler has been in the glades so green
And sad are the changes there;
The plou' has been to the very brink
O' the lovely Locher fa',
And beauty has fled wi' the auld yew-trees
And the bonnie wee birds awa'.

Young spring aye cam' the earliest there,
Alang wi' her dear cuckoo,
And the weary autumn lingered lang
Wi' her lonely cusha-doo;
And peace aye nestled in ilka nook

O' the bonnie gowany glen,

For it's always Sabbath among the flowers, Awa' frae the haunts o' men.

How aft hae I paused in thae green retreats
O' the hare and the foggy-bee,
While the lintie lilted to his love-
As blythe as a bird could be;
And the yorlin sang on the whinny knowe,
In the cheery morn o' spring,

And the laverock drapt frae the cloud at e'en,
To fauld up her weary wing.

And the mavis sang in the thorny brake,
And the blackbird on the tree,
And the lintwhite tauld his tale of love,
Far down in the gowany lea;

And the moss an' the cress an' the crawflow'r crept
Sae close to the crystal spring,

And the water cam' wi' a laughin' loup,
And awa' like a living thing.

And it sang its way through the green retreats,

In a voice so sweet and clear,

That the rowan listened on the rock,

And the hazel leaned to hear;

And the water-lilies raised their heads,
And the bells in clusters blue,

And the primrose came wi' its modest face,
A' wat wi' the balmy dew.

And the hoary hawthorn hung its head

As lapt in a blissfu' dream,
While the honeysuckle strained to catch
The murmurs o' that stream;
And the buttercup and the cowslip pale,
To the green, green margin drew,
And the gowan cam' and brought wi' her
The bonnie wee violet blue.

And the red red rose and the eglantine,
And the stately foxglove came,
And mony an' mony a sweet wee flower,
That has died without a name;
While the burnie brattled doun the brae,
In her ain blithe merry din,

And leapt the rocks in a cloud o' spray,
And roared in the boiling linn;

And churned hersel' into silver white,
Into bubbles green and gay,

And rumbled round in her wild delight,
'Neath the rainbow's lovely ray;

And swirled, and sank, and rose to the brim,
Like the snawdrift on the lee,

And then in bells o' the rainbow's rim,
She sang awa' to the sea.

But the trees are felled and the birds are gane,

And the banks are lone and bare,

And wearily now she drags her lane

Wi' the heavy sough o' care;

And fond lovers there shall meet nae mair,
In the lang, lang simmer's e'en,

To pledge their vows 'neath the spreading boughs,
Of the birk and the beech sae green.

In a' my wanderings far or near,

Through thir woods sae wild and lane, There was still ae spot to memory dear, That I hoped to see again;

But I'll no gae back, I'll no gae back,
For my heart is sick and sair,
And I couldna bide to see the wreck
O' a place sae sweet and fair.

OLD HANNAH.

'Tis Sabbath morn, and a holy balm
Drops down on the heart like dew,
And the sunbeams gleam
Like a blessed dream

Afar on the mountains blue.
Old Hannah's by her cottage door,
In her faded widow's cap;

She is sitting alone
On the old gray stone,
With the Bible in her lap.

An oak is hanging o'er her head,
And the burn is wimpling by;
The primroses peep

From their sylvan keep,

And the lark is in the sky.

Beneath that shade her children played, But they're all away with Death, And she sits alone

On the old gray stone

To hear what the Spirit saith.

Her years are o'er threescore and ten,
And her eyes are waxing dim,
But the page is bright
With a living light,

And her heart leaps up to Him
Who pours the mystic harmony
Which the soul can only hear!
She is not alone

On the old gray stone,
Tho' no earthly friend is near.

There's no one left to love her now; But the Eye that never sleeps Looks on her in love

From the heavens above, And with quiet joy she weeps: She feels the balm of bliss is pour'd In her lone heart's deepest rut;

And the widow lone

On the old gray stone,
Has a peace the world knows not.

THE HALLS OF HOLYROOD.

O let me sit as evening falls
In sad and solemn mood,
Among the now deserted halls

Of ancient Holyrood;

And think how human power and pride Must sink into decay,

Or like the bubbles on the tide,

Pass, pass away.

No more the joyous crowd resorts
To see the archers good

Draw bow within the ringing courts
Of merry Holyrood;

MAY.

O sing and rejoice!
Give to gladness a voice,
Shout a welcome to beautiful May!
Rejoice with the flowers,

And the birds 'mong the bowers,
And away to the greenwoods, away!
O blithe as the fawn,

Let us dance in the dawn

Of this life-giving, glorious day; 'Tis bright as the first

Over Eden that burst

Thou'rt welcome, young joy-giving May!

The cataract's horn

Has awaken'd the morn,

Her tresses are dripping with dew; O hush thee, and hark! 'Tis her herald, the lark,

That's singing afar in the blue.

Its happy heart's rushing,
In strains wildly gushing,

That reach to the revelling earth,

LORD LINDSAY'S RETURN.

O weel I mind of that happy morn,

When I blew the hunter's bugle-horn,

And the sound through the leafy lane was borne.

And the joyous brothers, fair and tall,
Came bounding forth from the castle hall,
With their ringing welcome, one and all.

And a sister came with her fairy feet,
The happy sprite of that green retreat;
Oh why! oh why! did we ever meet?

And we ranged the dells and the forest free,
And O, what a joyous band were we,

Happy as only young hearts can be!

No sorrow came to those bowers so green,
For we had no time to think, I ween,

On the what might be, or the what had been.

But I left them all for a distant land,
Where the lakes and the woods are wild and

grand,

But my heart still turn'd to that joyous band.

Aweary of fortune's fickle gleams,

I sat me down by the stranger's streams,
And wander'd away to the land of dreams.