He soon established for himself the reputation of being both a humorist and a poet by his poem of "John o' Arnha'," the first sketch of which appeared in the columns of the Montrose and meagre compared with its finished form. It was afterwards extended to four times its original length, and made much richer and fuller. were the days of simple homely pleasures and rural festivities, when the more serious business of life was enlivened at stated periods by the merrymakings of Hallowe'en, Hogmanay, Yule, Pasch Saturday, and carlin play at harvest-Review in 1815. In this shape the poem is bare home, and George's nature seems to have been considerably influenced by the frolic and simplicity of these rustic rites. When he was about thirteen years of age his father obtained a situation in the excise, and this led the family to remove to Montrose, a distance of about five miles. It was probably with some sorrow that the children left their pretty country home, and it is said that George walked all the distance to their new abode with a tame "kae" (jackdaw) on his shoulder. Some time after the family settled at Montrose George was sent to learn a trade, but he continued at it a very short time. He managed to procure a situation as clerk in an office in Aberdeen. His employer died six weeks later, however, and left to his clerk a legacy of £50. This was quite a little capital to the young man. He returned to Montrose, and entered the office of the procurator-fiscal of the place. After passing a year or two in Edinburgh he commenced business for himself in Montrose as a writer. In this capacity he succeeded well, and attracted many friends by the kindliness of his manner, the accuracy of his official habits, and his conversational gifts. Six years later the tragic interest of Beattie's life begins, but we cannot more than briefly outline the story. After successfully wooing a certain lady, she inherits a large fortune, and, abandoning the humble poet for a more aristocratic suitor, who is suddenly smitten with her solid charms, the sensitive Beattie is so overwhelmed with grief and despair that he provides himself with a pistol, walks out to a favourite resort known as the Auld Kirkyard, and is found the following day lying dead by the side of his sister's grave. Since the time of his death (September 29, 1823) his poetical writings have passed through several editions. The latest collection is accompanied by an interesting memoir of the poet from the pen of A. S. MtCyrus, M.A.; also memoranda from manuscripts left by Beattie. His principal poem, "John o' Arnha'," is full of wild rollicking fun and humour, and has been well called an amplified and localized "Tam o' Shanter." Mingled with its grotesque imagery there is a vein of deep pathos. JOHN O' ARNHA'. It was in May, ae bonny morn, The whins in yellow bloom were clad, The lammies frisket o'er the lea- Now "sighs and vows," and kisses sweet— To grace Montrose's annual fair!- To render barren brains prolific; For poetasters, who conspire To rob Apollo of his lyre, Although they never laid a leg Athort his godship's trusty naig; For preachers, writers, and physicians— Parasites and politicians: And all accomplished, grave, and wise, Or sae appear in their own eyes! To wit and lair, too, make pretence, E'en sometimes "" deviate into sense!" A path right kittle, steep, and latent, And only to a few made patent. So, lest it might offend the sentry, I winna seek to force an entry, But leav't to bards inspir'd and holy, And tread the open field of folly; For certes, as the world goes, Nonsense in rhyme's as free's in prose; And are we not distinctly told By Hudibras, in days of old, That Those who write in rhyme still make As for your critics, ruin seize them, How soon are mortals led astray- A wicked scandalous digression; By bards of yore who sang of gods, Or fill our brains wi' lies and fiction, I sing not of an ancient knight, Wi' polish'd lance and armour bright; Nor, as we say, wi' book bedeck it In iron cap and jinglin' jecket, High mounted on a champion steed, Enough to fley puir fouk to deidOr modern Dux, wi' noddin' crest, An' starnies glancin' on his breastOr garter wappin' round his knee To celebrate his chivalry;Heroes fit for southern bardies! Mine walks a-foot and wields his gardies; The valiant hero of my story Stark love his noble heart had fir'd- Now thrice he wav'd his hat in airThrice dar'd the bravest i' the fair. The Horner also wav'd his bonnet, But wish'd belyve he hadna dune it; For scarcely could ye counted sax, Before a double round o' whacks Were shower'd upon his banes like hail, Right, left, and centre, crack pell-mellSair to bide, and terrible to tell. The hardest head could ne'er resist The fury of his pond'rous fist; He hit him on the ribs sic dirds, They raird and roove like rotten girds; His carcass, too, for a' the warl', Was like a butt or porter barrel. Now John gaed round him like a cooper, An' showed himsel' a smart tub hooper; To whirl them through the airy regions. THE DREAM. Was solemn and low, and they spoke the language Last night I dreamed a dream of horror. Me- Of shadowy shapes, gliding here, and moaning thought That, at the hour of midnight, the bell tolled, As they flutter against the ruins of Of spring awakes them from their drowsy couch, At the silent, solemn hour of midnight? Straight a fleshless hand, cold as ice, was pressed Although the round full moon shone bright Tempest, roaring in a boundless forest, and clear, Yet did none of these awful phantoms cast earth, Uprooting trees, razing habitations, Some skimmed along the | Or, rather, like all these together, in And others sailed aloft on the thin air; One wild concert joined. Now the mighty coil Eolian harp, when the breeze, that erewhile The next whisper was still lower; and the last JOHN DONALD CARRICK. BORN 1787-DIED 1837. JOHN DONALD CARRICK, a meritorious but | unsuccessful literary man, and the author of numerous songs and poems chiefly of a humorous character, was born at Glasgow, April, 1787. His parents, being in humble circumstances, could only afford their son an ordinary education; and at an early age he was placed in the office of an architect in his native city. In his twentieth year, unknown to his parents, he left Glasgow, and travelled to London on foot, there to seek his fortune. On his arrival velling agent in the West Highlands. Afterwards he became assistant editor of the Scots Times, a newspaper then published in Glasgow. To the first volume of Whistle-Binkie Mr. Carrick contributed the subjoined and many other songs, which he used to sing with inimitable effect. In 1833 he went to Perth as editor of the Advertiser, and the year following accepted the editorship of the Kilmarnock Journal. In 1835 he returned to Glasgow, he offered his services in various places in vain, first edition of the Laird of Logan, an unbut at last found employment with a fellow rivalled collection of Scottish anecdote and countryman who took compassion on the friend- facetiæ, to which he was the principal contriFor some time he was employed by butor. Mr. Carrick died August 17, 1837, owing to ill health, and superintended the less lad. a house in the pottery business, and in 1811 and was interred in the burying-ground of the he returned to Glasgow, and opened a large | High Church of his native city. His biograchina and stoneware establishment, in which pher says:-"We may observe generally, that trade he continued for fourteen years. In 1825, being deeply read in old Scottish literature, as a descriptive painter of the comic and ludicrous aspects of man and society, and as equally he began the preparation of a "Life of Sir skilful in the analysis of human character, William Wallace," which was written for Con- combined with a rare and never-failing humour, Stable's Miscellany. The same year he gave up his own business, and was for some time employed by a pungent but not malicious irony, and great ease and perspicuity of expression, few writers have surpassed John Donald Carrick." THE MUIRLAN' COTTARS. "The snaw flees thicker o'er the muir, and I fear this night will tell a tale among our foldless sheep, "That time I often think upon, and make it aye my care, On nichts like this, to snod up a' the beds we hae to spare; In case some drift-driven strangers come forfoughten to our beild, That will mak many a farmer sigh-God grant | An' welcome, welcome they shall be to what nae widows weep! "I'm blythe, guidman, to see you there, wi' elshin an' wi' lingle the house can yield. "'Twas God that saved you on that nicht, when a' was black despair, Sae ey dent at your cobbling wark beside the An' gratitude is due to him for makin' you It brings to mind that fearfu' nicht, i' the spring Then let us show our grateful sense of the cosie ingle; that's now awa', his care; kindness he bestowed, When you was carried thowlass hame, frae An' cheer the poor wayfaring man that wanders "There's cauld and drift without, guidman, | Thus aft it comes the gracious deeds which we might drive a body blin', to others show But, Praise be blessed for a' that's guid, there's Return again to our own hearts with joyous meat and drink within; "Yes, Mirran, yes, 'twas God himself that helped us in our strait, An' gratitude is due to him-his kindness it was great; An' much I thank thee thus to mak' the stranger's state thy care, overflow. THE SONG OF THE SLAVE. O England! dear home of the lovely and true, pursue, My thoughts shall ne'er wander from thee. Rests the print of thy shore, By this die on my breast Is "England, dear England, for ever," As Queen, she sits throned with her sceptre of light Aloft on the white-crested wave, An' bless thy tender heart, for sure the grace While billows surround her, as guards of her right of God is there." Nor prince nor beggar was decreed their kindness to partake; The hours sped on their stealthy pace as silent as the flake, Till on the startled ear there came a feeble cry of woe, To an island where breathes not a slave. Shall, through regions of night, Shed a radiance like darts from day's quiver, To the queen of the waves, As if of some benighted one fast sinking in the How often hath fame, with his trumpet's loud snow. blast, Praised the crimes of mock heroes in war, But help was near-an' soon a youth, in hod- Whose joy was to revel o'er nations laid waste, den gray attire, Benumbed with cold, extended, lay before the cottars' fire; And drag the fallen foe to their car! But a new law from heaven, To fame and from which she'll ne'er sever |