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HECTOR MACNEILL (1746-1818) was brought up to a mercantile life, but was unsuccessful in most of his business affairs. 1:89, he published a legendary poem, The Harp,' and in 1795, his moral tale, Scotland's Skaith, or the History o' Will and Jean.' The object of this production was to depict the evil effects of intemperance. A happy rural pair are reduced to ruin, descending by gradual steps till the husband is obliged to enlist as a soldier, and the wife to beg with her children through the country. The situation of the little ale-house, where Will begins his unlucky potations, is finely described.

In a howm, whose bonny burnie

Whimpering rowed its crystal flood,
Near the road where travellers turn aye,
Neat and beild, a cot-house stood:
White the wa's, wi' roof new theekit,
Window broads just painted red;
Lowne 'mang trees and braes it reekit,
Haflins seen and haflins hid.

Up the gavel-end, thick spreadin',
Crap the clasping ivy green,

Back ower, firs the high craigs cleadin',
Raised a' round a cosy screen.

Down below, a flowery meadow
Joined the burnie's rambling line;
Here it was that Howe the widow
That same day set up her sigu.
Brattling down the brae, and near its
Bottom, Will first marvelling sees
'Porter, Ale, and British Spirits,'
Painted bright between twa trees.

'Godsake, Tam! here's walth fordrinking!
Wha can this new-comer be ??
'Hout, quo' Tam, there's drouch in
thinking-

Let's in, Will, and syne we'll see.'

The rustic friends have a jolly meeting, and do not separate till 'tween twa and three' next morning. A weekly club is set up at

Maggy Howe's, a newspaper is procured, and poor Will, the hero of the tale, becomes a pot-house politician, and soon goes to ruin. His wife also takes to drinking.

Wha was ance like Willie Gairlace?
Wha in neebouring town or farm?
Beauty's bloom shone in his fair face,
Deadly strength was in his arm.

When he first saw Jeanie Miller,

Wha wi' Jeanie could compare? Thousands had mair braws and siller, But war only half sae fair?

See them now-how changed wi' drinking!

A' their youthfu' beauty gane! Davered, doited, daized, and blinkingWorn to perfect skin and bane!

In the cauld month o' November-
Claise and cash and credit out-
Cowering ower a dying ember,
Wi' ilk face as white 's a clout!

Bond and bill and debts a' stoppit,
Ilka sheaf selt on the bent;
Cattle, beds, and blankets roupit,
Now to pay the laird his rent.

No anither night to lodge here-
No a friend their cause to plead !
He 's ta'en on to be a sodger,

She wi' weans to beg her bread!

The little domestic drama is happily wound up: Jeanie obtains a cottage and protection from the Duchess of Buccleuch; and Will, after losing a leg in battle, returns, 'placed on Chelsea's bounty,' and finds his wife and family.

Sometimes briskly, sometimes flaggin',
Sometimes helpit, Will gat forth;
On a cart, or in a wagon,

Hirpling aye towards the north.

Tired ae e'ening, stepping hooly,
Pondering on his thraward fate,
In the bonny month o' July,

Willie, heedless, tint his gate.

Saft the southland breeze was blawing,
Sweetly sughed the green aik wood;
Loud the din o' streams fast fa'ing,

Strack the ear wi' thundering thud:

Ewes and lambs on braes ran bleating;
Linties chirped on ilka tree;
Frae the west, the sun, near setting,
Flamed on Roslin's tower sac hie.

Roslin's towers and bracs sac bonny!
Craigs and water, woods and glen!
Roslin's banks, unpeered by ony,
Save the Muses' Hawthornden!

Ilka scund and charm delighting,

Will-though hardly fit to gang-
Wandered on through scenes inviting,
Listening to the mavis' sang.

Faint at length, the day fast closing,
On a fragrant strawberry steep,
Esk's sweet stream to rest composing,
Wearied nature drupt asicep.

Hae ye marked the dews o' morning
Glittering in the sunny ray,
Quickly fa', when, without warning,
Rough blasts came and shook the spray?

Hae ye seen the bird. fast fleeing,

Then see Jean, wi' colour deeing,
Senseless drap at Willie's feet.

After three lang years' affliction-
A' their waes now hushed to rest-
tean ance mair, in fond affection,
Clasps her Willie to her breast.

Drap, when pierced by death mair fleet? The simple truth and pathos of descriptions like these appealed to the heart, and soon rendered Macneill's poem universally popular in Scotland. Its moral tendency was also a strong recommendation, and the same causes still operate in procuring readers for the tale, especially in that class best fitted to appreciate its rural beauties and homely pictures, and to receive benefit from the lessons it inculcates. Macneill wrote several Scottish lyrics, and published a descriptive poem, entitled 'The Links of Forth, or a parting Peep at the Carse of Stirling;' and some prose tales, in which he laments the effect of modern change and improvement. The latter years of the poet were spent in comparative comfort in Edinburgh.

Mary of Castle-Cary.

'Saw ye my wee thing, saw ye my ain thing,
Saw ye my true love down on yon lea?
Crossed she the meadow yestreen at the gloaming,
Sought she the burnie where flowers the haw-tree?
Her hair it is lint-white, her skin it is milk-white,
Dark is the blue of her soft rolling ee;

Red, red are her ripe lips, and sweeter than roses→→
Where could my wee thing wander frae me?'

'I saw nae your wee thing, I saw nae your ain thing,
Nor saw I your true love down by yon lea;
But I met my bonny thing late in the gloaming,
Down by the burnie where flowers the haw-tree:
Her hair it was lint-white, her skin it was milk-white,
Dark was the blue of her soft rolling ee;

Red were her ripe lips, and sweeter than roses-
Sweet were the kisses that she gave to me.'

'It was nae my wee thing, it was nae my ain thing,
It was nae my true love ye met by the tree:
Proud is her leal heart, and modest her nature;
She never loved ony till ance she lo'ed me.
Her name it is Mary; she's frae Castle-Cary;
Aft has she sat when a bairn on my knee:
Fair as your face is, were 't fifty times fairer,
Young bragger, she ne'er wad gie kisses to thee.'

'It was then your Mary; she's frae Castle-Cary;
It was then your true love I met by the tree;
Proud as her heart is, and modest her nature,
Sweet were the kisses that she gave to me.'
Sair gloomed his dark brow, blood-red his cheek grew,
Wild flashed the fire frae his red rolling ee:

'Ye'se rue sair this morning your boasts and your scorning;
Defend ye, fause traitor; fu' loudly ye lie.'

'Away wi' beguiling,' cried the youth, smiling-
Off went the bonnet, the lint-white locks flee,

The belted plaid faing, her white bosom shawing,
Fair stood the loved maid wi' the dark rolling ee.
Is it my wee thing, is it my ain thing,

Is it my true love here that I see?""

'O Jamie, forgie me; your heart's constant to me;
I'll never mair wander, dear laddie, frae thee.'

JOHN MAYNE.

JOHN MAYNE, author of the Siller Gun, Glasgow,' and other poems, was a native of Dumfries-born in the year 1761-and died in London in 1836. He was brought up to the printing business, and whilst apprentice in the ‘Dumfries Journal ́ ́ office in 1777, in his sixteenth year, he published the germ of his Siller Gun' in a quarto page of twelve stanzas. The subject of the poem is an ancient custom in Dumfries, called Shooting for the Siller Gun,' the gun being a small silver tube presented by James VI. to the incorporated trades as a prize to the best marksman. This poem Mr. Mayne continued to enlarge and improve up to the time of his death. The twelve stanzas expanded in two years to two cantos; in another year (1780) the poem was published-enlarged to three cantos-in ·Řuddiman's Magazine;' and in 1808 it was published in London in four cantos. This edition was seen by Sir Walter Scott, who said (in one of his notes to the 'Lady of the Lake') 'that it surpassed the efforts of Fergusson, and came near to those of Burns.'

Mr. Mayne was author of a short poem on Hallowe'en,` printed in 'Ruddiman's Magazine' in 1780; and in 1781; he published at Glasgow his fine ballad of Logan Braes,' which Burns had seen, and two lines of which he copied into his 'Logan Water.' The Siller Gun' is humorous and descriptive, and is happy in both. The author is a shrewd and lively observer, fuii of glee, and also of gentle and affectionate recollections of his native town and all its people and pas times. The ballad of Logan Praes' is a simple and beautiful lyric, superior to the more elaborate version of Burns. Though long resi dent in London (as proprietor of the 'Star' newspaper), Mr. Mayne retained his Scottish enthusiasm to the last; and to those who, like ourselves, recollect him in advanced life, stopping in the midst of his duties as a public journalist, to trace some remembrance of h's native Dumfries and the banks of the Nith, or to hum over some rural or pastoral song which he had heard forty or fifty years before his name, as well as his poetry, recalls the strength and tenacity of early feelings and local associations.

Logan Braes.

By Logan's streams, that rin зae deep,
Fu' aft wi' glee I've herded sheep,
Herded sheep and gathered slaes,
Wi' my dear lad on Logan braes.
But wae's my heart, thae days are gane,
And I wi' grief may herd clane,

While my dear lad maun face his faes,
Far, far frae me and Logan Braes.

Nae mair at Logan kirk will he
Atween the preachings meet wi' me;
Meet wi me, or when it's mirk,