List! what yon harpers on golden harps play;
Come, come away; come, come away;
Falling and frail is your cottage of clay;
Come, come away; come, come away:
Come to these mansions, there 's room yet for you,
Dwell with the Friend ever faithful and true;
Sing ye the song, ever old, ever new;
Come, come away; come away.
WILLIAM SINCLAIR.
A pleasing lyric poet, William Sinclair, was born at Edinburgh in 1811. His father was a trader in the city. Receiving an ordinary education, he became in his fourteenth year apprentice to a bookseller in Frederick Street. A large circulating library connected with the establishment enabled him to gratify an ardent love of reading, and brought him into contact with persons of strong literary tastes. Quitting the business of bookseller, he proceeded to Dundee, as clerk in a lawyer's office. He afterwards accepted a situation in the Customs at Liverpool. His official services were subsequently transferred to Leith, where he had the privilege of associating with the poets Moir, Gilfillan, and Vedder.
Early devoted to song-writing, Mr Sinclair, while the bookseller's apprentice, contributed verses to the newspapers and popular periodicals. Some of his poetical compositions have appeared in Blackwood's Magazine. The poet Robert Nicoll submitted the first edition of his poems to his revision. In 1843 he published an octavo volume of poems and songs, with the title "Poems of the Fancy and the Affections." To Major de Renzy's "Poetical Illustrations of the Achievements of the Duke of Wellington," published in 1852, he was a conspicuous contributor. Several of his songs have been set to music. Mr Sinclair has latterly resided in Stirling, where he holds the situation of reporter to one of the local journals.
THE ROYAL BREADALBANE OAK.
Thy queenly hand, Victoria,
By the mountain and the rock,
Hath planted 'midst the Highland hills
A Royal British Oak;
Oh, thou guardian of the free!
Oh, thou mistress of the sea!
Trebly dear shall be the ties
That shall bind us to thy name,
Ere this Royal Oak shall rise
To thy fame, to thy fame!
The oak hath scatter'd terror
O'er our foemen from our ships,
They have given the voice of England's fame
In thunders from their lips;
'Twill be mirror'd in the rills!
It shall wave among the hills!
And the rallying cry shall wake
Nigh the planted of thy hand,
That the loud acclaim may break
O'er the land, o'er the land!
While it waves unto the tempest,
It shall call thy name to mind,
And the "Gathering" 'mong the hills shall be
Like the rushing of the wind!
Arise! ye Gaels, arise!
Let the echoes ring your cries,
By our mountain's rocky throne,
By Victoria's name adored—
We shall reap her enemies down
With the sword, with the sword!