*This humorous elegy was first published in Blackwood's Magazine for September 1819. Captain Paton was a well-known character in Glasgow. The son of Dr David Paton, a physician in that city, he obtained a commission in a regiment raised in Scotland for the Dutch service. He afterwards resided with his two maiden sisters, and an old servant Nelly, in a tenement opposite the Old Exchange at the Cross, which had been left him by his father. The following graphic account of the Captain we transcribe from Dr Strang's "Glasgow and its Clubs:" "Every sunshine day, and sometimes even amid shower and storm, about the close of the past and the commencement of the present century, was the worthy Captain in the Dutch service seen parading the plainstanes, opposite his own residence in the Trongate, donned in a suit of snuff-coloured brown or genty drab,' his long spare limbs encased in blue striped stockings, with shoes and buckles, and sporting ruffles of the finest cambric at his wrists, while adown his back hung a long queue, and on his head was perched a small three-cocked hat, which, with a poli His waistcoat, coat, and breeches They were whiter than the snow. His hair was curled in order, That some inches up did grow, And whenever we forgather'd, He took off his wee three-cockit, He would make a remark or so, Oh! we ne'er shall see the like of Captain Paton no mo'e! In dirty days he picked well His footsteps with his rattan; Oh! you ne'er could see the least speck Oh! we ne'er shall see the like of Captain Now and then, upon a Sunday, He invited me to dine On a herring and a mutton chop, Which his maid dress'd very fine. tesse tout a fait Francais, he invariably took off when saluting a friend. Captain Paton, while a denizen of the camp, had studied well the noble art of fence, and was looked upon as a most accomplished swordsman, which might easily be discovered from his happy but threatening manner of holding his cane, when sallying from his own domicile towards the coffee-room, which he usually entered about two o'clock, to study the news of the day in the pages of the Courier. The gallant Captain frequently indulged, like Othello, in speaking 'Of moving incidents by flood and field, Of hair-breadth 'scapes i' the imminent deadly breach.' and of his own brave doings on the tented field, at Minden and at Dettingen, particularly when seated round a bowl of his favourite cold punch, made with limes from his own estate in Trinidad, and with water newly drawn from the Westport well." It remains to be added, that this "prince of worthy fellows" died in July 1807, at the age of sixty-eight. While his blood ran out like water There was also a little Malmsey, And a bottle of Bordeaux, Which, between me and the captain, Oh! I ne'er shall take potluck with Captain Oh! we ne'er shall see the like of Captain And in spite of all that Cleghorn It was plain, from twenty symptoms So the captain made his test'ment, And we laid him by the Ram's-horn kirk- Oh! we ne'er shall see the like of Captain Join all in chorus, jolly boys, And let punch and tears be shed, For this prince of worthy fellows- In sorrow, grief, and woe! For it ne'er shall see the like of Captain Paton no mo'e! THOMAS MATHERS. THOMAS MATHERS, the fisherman poet, was born at St Monance, Fifeshire, in 1794. Receiving an education at school confined to the simplest branches, he chose the seafaring life, and connected himself with the merchant service. At Venice, he had a casual rencounter with Lord Byron,-a circumstance which he was in the habit of narrating with enthusiasm. Leaving the merchant service, he married, and became a fisherman and pilot, fixing his residence in his native village. His future life was a career of incessant toil and frequent penury, much alleviated, however, by the invocation of the muse. He contributed verses for a series of years to several of the public journals; and his compositions gained him a wide circle of admirers. He long cherished the ambition of publishing a volume of poems; and the desire at length was gratified through the subscriptions of his friends. In 1851, he printed a duodecimo volume, entitled, "Musings in Verse, by Sea and Shore," which, however, had only been put into shape when the author was called to his rest. He died of a short illness, at St Monance, on the 25th September 1851, leaving a widow and several young children. His poetry is chiefly remarkable for depth of feeling. Of his powers as a song-writer, the following lyric, entitled " Early Love," is a favourable specimen. Q DANIEL WEIR was born at Greenock, on the 31st of March 1796. His father, John Weir, was a shoemaker, and at one period a small shopkeeper in that town. From his mother, Sarah Wright, he inherited a delicate constitution. His education was conducted at a private school; and in 1809, he became apprentice to Mr Scott, a respectable bookseller in Greenock. In 1815, he commenced business as a bookseller on his own account. Imbued with the love of learning, and especially of poetry, Weir devoted his hours of leisure to extensive reading and the composition of verses. To the "Scottish Minstrel" of R. A. Smith he contributed several respectable songs; and edited for Messrs Griffin & Co., booksellers in Glasgow, three volumes of lyric poems, which appeared under the title of "The National Minstrel," "The Sacred Lyre," and "Lyrical Gems." These collections are adorned with many compositions of his own. In 1829, he published a "History of the Town of Greenock," in a thin octavo volume, illustrated with engravings. He died on the 11th November 1831, in his thirty-fifth year. Possessed of a fine genius, a brilliant fancy, and much gracefulness of expression, Weir has decided claims to remembrance. His conversational talents were of a remarkable description, and attracted to his shop many persons of taste, to whom his poetical talents were unknown. He was familiar with the whole of the British poets, and had committed their best passages to memory. Possessing a keen relish for the ludicrous, he had at command a store of delightful anecdote, which he gave forth with a quaintness of look and utterance, so as to render the force of the humour totally irresistible. His sarcastic wit was an object of dread to his opponents in burgh politics. His appearance was striking. Rather mal-formed, he was under the middle size; his head seemed large for his person, and his shoulders were of unusual breadth. His complexion was dark, and his eyes hazel; and when his countenance was lit up on the recitation of some witty tale, he looked the impersonation of mirthfulness. Eccentric as were some of his habits and modes of action, he was seriously impressed by religious principle; some of his devotional compositions are admirable specimens of sacred poetry. He left an unpublished MS. poem, entitled "The Pleasures of Religion." SEE THE MOON. SEE the moon o'er cloudless Jura Shining in the lake below; See the distant mountain tow'ring Scenes of grandeur-scenes of childhood- On Leman's breast the winds are sighing; And the flow'rs, with dew-drops glist'ning, OH! OUR CHILDHOOD'S ONCE DELIGHTFUL HOURS. AIR-"Oh! the days are past when beauty bright." OH! our childhood's once delightful hours Ne'er come again Their sunny glens, their blooming bowers, And primrose plain! With other days, Ambitious rays May flash upon our mind; But give me back the morn of life, With fond thoughts twined, As it sweetly broke on bower and hill, Oh! our childhood's days are ne'er forgot And memory hails that sacred spot Where'er we be; As youth comes on the mind, With fond thoughts twined, etc. When age will come, with locks of grey, And its stream runs cold along the way Breaks on its wavering mind; IN THE MORNING OF LIFE. IN the morning of life, when its sweet sunny smile Shines bright on our path, we may dream we are blest; We may look on the world as a gay fairy isle, Where sorrow's unknown, and the weary have rest! THE MIDNIGHT WIND. I'VE listen'd to the midnight wind, And still methought the hollow sound I've listen'd to the midnight wind, And thought of friends untrue- I've listen'd to the midnight wind When nought was heard before, behind- And I have sat at such an hour And heard the sick man's sigh; I've listen'd to the midnight wind, The melting voice of one we loved, Whose voice was heard no more, I've listen'd to the midnight wind, And felt those movings of the mind The ticking clock, which told the hour, I've listen'd to the midnight wind, When, o'er the new-made grave Of one whose heart was true and kind, Oh! there was something in the sound- Which led the thoughts to that dark ground I've listen'd to the midnight wind, While thoughts like these have oft combined And even when slumber, soft and deep, The restless soul, which cannot sleep, ROBERT DAVIDSON. ROBERT DAVIDSON was born in the parish of Morebattle, Roxburghshire, in 1779. The son of humble parents, he was sent to tend cattle in his tenth year. He had received at the parish school a limited education; and he devoted his leisure time on the hills to miscellaneous reading. Learning scraps of old ballads from the cottage matrons, as they sung them at their distaffs, he early began to essay imitations of these olden ditties. As a farm-servant and an agricultural labourer, he continued through life to seek repose from toil in the perusal of poetry and the composition of verses. "My simple muse," he afterwards wrote, "oft visited me at the plough, and made the labour to seem lighter and the day shorter." In 1811, and in 1824, he published small collections of verses. At the recommendation of some influential friends, he published in 1848, a compact little volume of his best pieces, under the title, “Leaves from a Peasant's Cottage-Drawer;" and to which was prefixed a well-written autobiographical sketch. He was often oppressed by poverty; and, latterly, was the recipient of parochial relief. He died in the parish of Hounam, on the 6th April |