Glassford Bell was then editor. After working as a carpet weaver for some time, he took a grocer's shop, but did not succeed; and, with the exception of a few years passed in Edinburgh, became a wanderer in the truest sense till the end of his days.

In 1836 he published his first volume of poetry, nearly the whole edition of 1000 copies having been subscribed for, and in 1839 he brought out a second and enlarged edition. In 1854 (through the influence of Mr Patrick Maxwell, of Edinburgh, author of a life of Miss Susanna Blamire, the charming Cumberland poetess, and himself a poet), Ramsay was appoined officer in that city to the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals, which four years afterwards he resigned on obtaining the situation of

Superintendent of Slaughter-Houses there. After a service of eighteen months, he had to take again to wandering from city to city all over Scotland, England and Ireland, selling his works. In this way he had sold not fewer than 9000 copies of his "Woodnotes, ," and at least 3000 of his latest work, the

Gleanings." He told many strange tales of his adventures when so engaged, and of the men and women of note with whom he had met; and it is not without interest to the public to know that, having called upon Wordsworth only a year or two before that great poet's death, the venerable bard, while talking to him kindly of his poems and of his prospects, also gave him excellent moral and religious advice.

Ramsay died in Glasgow two years ago, and lies buried in the quiet country churchyard of Kilmaurs, only two miles from the place of his birth. Ramsay's poetry has very considerable strength, though but little lyrical fluency; and his later writings in no way surpassed, if, indeed, they equalled, the early utterances of his Muse.

TO THE "CUSHIE DOO."
Idol of my early days,

Come, O come thou in the rays
Youthful fancy round thee threw !
Be again my "cushie doo."
Never! no, it cannot be ;
And the fault is all in me.

What a transport filled my breast
When I first beheld thy nest!
Flat it was, and hard and bare;
Two white eggs were lying there,---
Worthless in reality,

Yet a treasure great to me;
But a treasure greater still

When the brood was fledged, with bill
Smacking, and distended breast,
Up they rose to guard their nest,
And each wilful, struggling bird
To my bonnet was transferred.
Four long miles, with cranium bare,
On I trudged then, nor did care
If it shone, or rained, or blew,
There was but one point in view;
Stopping oft to feast my eyes
On the panting hapless prize;
Not a single thought to spare
For the stricken parent pair,
Making all the sylvan vale
Vocal with their plaintive tale.
Thus we are in every stage,
Selfish, whether youth or age,
Boyhood's happy moments flown,
In the woodland deep, alone,
Where I lov'd to sit, and be
Tranced with thy sad melody,
While the hare was flitting by,
And the redbreast, summer-sky,
Started at the pheasant's cry;
Then the woodland old and grand
Was to me a spirit land,

Whence I dreams of bliss would see

Robed in immortality.

There the ivy flung its cloak

Richest round the aged oak;

There the fox-glove stateliest grew;

There the wild-rose freshest blew.

Such imagination's power

Was in youth's delightful hour.

I've heard in England's southern pale

The thrilling notes of nightingale ;
But in some native long-loved scene,
Where memory's favourites convene,

"Twere sweeter, though more bleak the view, To hear thy strains, dear "cushie doo.'

THE WAIL OF THE DISCONSOLATE.

Oh! loved and lamented, and though from this sphere
For ever departed, in memory still dear!

Yes, mind must relinguish her power to review
The past, when I think not, dear angels, of you.

So formed for to reap the enjoyments of life,
So furnished with parts to prevail in its strife,
And just in the dawning of manhood's glad day,
How saddening to think ye were summoned away.

That natures so earnest, so generous have been
The dupes of the false, and the prey of the mean,
Of malice and ignorant avarice made

The tools, and your lives were the price that you paid!

The voice of the comforter speaks but in vain,
Unwelcome, though friendship is heard in the strain,
And the scenes though in light and in beauty arrayed
Seem dark and unlovely through sorrow's deep shade.

Time was when from Nature sweet solace I drew,
And song was a source of delights ever new;
But lost to the heart is their generous sway

Since my dear bonnie lads have been laid in the clay.

One hope still remains, but at times it appears
Like the vista of life in the valley of years,
Or moon of the midnight, whose shadowy form
Is struggling and trembling in gusts of the storm.

That hope is, when time and its trials are o'er,
To meet on a fairer, a happier shore :

But favourites of Heav'n are call'd earliest home-
In mercy removed from the evil to come.

O! loved and lamented, and though from this sphere
For ever departed, in memory still near!

Yes, mind must relinquish her power to review
The past, when I think not, dear angels, of you.

WILLIAM C. CAMERON

S a poet of singularly tender and melting pathos, and when his education and circumstances during the earlier part of his life are taken into account, one is struck with wonder at finding thoughts both forcible and eloquent which distinguish many of his compositions.

William C. Cameron was born in Dumbarton Castle in 1822-his father being then sergeant and for sometime schoolmaster in the 42nd regiment. On the elder Cameron receiving his discharge he returned to his native Dingwall, and dying soon after, he left his wife and three children to " fight for life." The mother was greatly respected, and was employed by the late Lady Seaforth, Brahan Castle, for whom she spun linen and did needlework. William was then employed as a message and stableboy, for which in return he had his food, clothing, and education. At fourteen he became an apprentice shoemaker-a trade he never liked, although he manfully stuck to it, and completed his "time." On becoming journeyman he set out for the South, and after working in various places, he settled down in Glasgow. He married when he was scarcely twenty, was foreman for thirteen years in a large establishment, and then commenced business for himself in the classic Gallowgate, where he flourished for several years, until he met with reverses. After paying all just claims in full, he became again. a servant. At present he in the employment of Messrs Menzies & Co., publishers, in their Glasgow branch. He is in his element amongst books instead of boots.

In 1875 he, under the patronage of Lady Campbell, of Garscube, issued a selection of his poems"Light, Shade, and Toil." The volume was edited by Dr Walter C. Smith, who also prefaced the work

by a commendatory note, and it was heartily reviewed by the press-the Quarterly Review and the Pall Mall Gazette, in particular, spoke of the poems as breathing a very genuine poetic spirit. William Cameron has long been a contributor to the "Poet's Corner" both of our leading newspapers and magazines. A love of Nature in her quieter moods, and a heart alive to the sympathies and affections of friendship are their more marked characteristics. His poems are full of thought and feeling, felicity and imagery, and smoothness of versification. His verses on the joys and sorrows of children are tiny paintings that touch the heart. They are distinct from the gibberish that so often passes for nursery rhymes-showing heart and strength, goodness of soul, and much tenderness.

THE ANGEL IN THE CLOUD.

Heigh ho! my little Willie, my own sweet, bonnie boy,
Crowing like a bantam cock, in mirthfulness and joy ;
What, I wonder, are the scenes, that greet your eagle eyes;
See you visions in the clouds, of loved ones in the skies?
Much I marvel if the shade of her who gave thee birth,

Comes to guard her boy again through this cold and sinful earth; Ah yes, nought else could light your eye, or make you crow so loud,

Save angels hovering o'er your head-the angel in the cloud.

Aye! dance away, my darling boy, in innocence and health, Soon, soon, old Care, in stealth will come, to rob you of your wealth;

Ah! soon, too soon, this busy life will shade your polished brow, And draw across your dimpled cheeks grief's heavy, iron plough; Your pretty curls of yellow hair grow thin, and grey, and wan, Your eyes turn dim with sorrow's tear, my bonnie, little man, Your lisping words be changed to threats, your crowing to a cough,

And moans and sighs be heard instead of silvery, ringing laugh.

Still, little Willie, play away, youth is for sport and fun;
In me a father you'll aye find, and I in you a son;
So play away with bat and ball, with bool, and hoop, and top,
And skip like lambkin on the lea, sweet minative of hope.
I would not mar your happy hours, for miser's heaps of gold,
Nor would I cloud your sunny skies, for riches yet untold;
For God intended boys should play, and God delights to see
The rosy days of childhood spent in happiness and glee.