WILLIAM M'LAREN.
William M'Laren, a poet of some merit, and an associate and biographer of Robert Tannahill, was born at Paisley about 1772. He originally followed the occupation of a handloom weaver, but was more devoted to the pursuits of literature than the business of his trade. Possessing a considerable share of poetical talent, he composed several volumes of verses, which were published by him on his own account, and very frequently to considerable pecuniary advantage. In 1817, he published, in quarto, a poetical tale, entitled, "Emma; or, The Cruel Father;" and another narrative poem in 1827, under the title of "Isabella; or, The Robbers." Many of his songs and lyrical pieces were contributed to provincial serials. His genius as a poet was exceeded by his skill as a prose writer; he composed in prose with elegance and power. In 1815, he published a memoir of Tannahill—an eloquent and affectionate tribute to the memory of his departed friend—to which is appended an éloge on Robert Burns, delivered at an anniversary of that poet's birthday. In 1818, he published, with a memoir, the posthumous poetical works of his relative, the poet Scadlock. His other prose writings consist of pamphlets on a diversity of subjects.
At one period, M'Laren established himself as a manufacturer in Ireland; but, rendering himself obnoxious by the bold expression of his political opinions, he found it necessary to make a hasty departure for Scotland. He latterly opened a change-house in Paisley, and his circumstances became considerably prosperous. He died in 1832, leaving a family. He is remembered as a person of somewhat singular manners, and of undaunted enterprise and decision of character. He was shrewd and well-informed, without much reading; he purchased no books, but was ingenious and successful in recommending his own.[71]
NOW SUMMER SHINES WITH GAUDY PRIDE.
Now summer shines with gaudy pride,
By flowery vale and mountain side,
And shepherds waste the sunny hours
By cooling streams, and bushy bowers;
While I, a victim to despair,
Avoid the sun's offensive glare,
And in sequester'd wilds deplore
The perjured vows of Ella More.
Would Fate my injured heart provide
Some cave beyond the mountain tide,
Some spot where scornful Beauty's eye
Ne'er waked the ardent lover's sigh;
I 'd there to woods and rocks complain,
To rocks that skirt the angry main;
For angry main, and rocky shore,
Are kinder far than Ella More.