Mr. Neilson died at Eastside, Kirkintilloch, on 3rd May, 1861, in his sixty-sixth year. The following is an extract from his poem on "The World's Fair, in London, 1851":-

"Now enter there, good stranger,-what a blaze
Of light prevails-no wonder that you gaze
In mute astonishment. Two thousand feet
Of crystal walls in one continuous street
Stretches before you; on each side huge piles
Of earth's vast riches may indeed cause smiles;
Brighten your countenance. Here Britain shows

Piles upon piles arranged in stately rows
Of sterling broad-cloth, fit to grace the frame
Of king or prince, or peasant,-'tis the same;
Good honest stuff, all made of Spanish wool,
But manufactured by old Johnny Bull.
Here's bales and trunks of muslin, all so fine,
They'd deck the Graces or the Muses nine,
But that we're told those ladies wore no clothes-
Bad customers for weavers we'll suppose.
Muslins and shawls from Scotland heap on heap-
Come, ladies, buy, you'll find them good and cheap.
Here's hose from isles of farthest Shetland sent,
Warm gloves for use and not mere ornament;
Fine table-cloths from old Dunfermline town,
Tartans from Bannockburn of old renown,
Rich plaids from Glasgow-glory of the Clyde !
Embroidery from Ayr on Doon's fair side,
Muslins from Paisley, crapes from Paisley too,
Kilmarnock caps of worsted red and blue-
Old Caledonia sends no useless trash,
But sterling goods quite worthy of the cash.

Look to the other side. Behold the gay
And gallant Frenchman, like a flower in May;
He smiles so gracefully, and points out where
You'll find his silks, his jewellery, and ware
Of various sorts. A crystal bottle stands-
Three men inside at dinner-lift your hands,

And clap them loud! Are not these Frenchmen clever?

Why, yes, says Jonathan, I guess I never

Saw such a crystal in my blessed life;

I'll buy it as a present to my wife."

A DREAM OF MY WIFE.

December, 1849.

"And have I seen thee once again, my sweet,
My best beloved? and shall we once more meet
And hold dear intercourse, my darling wife,

Thou that were dearer to me far than life?

I saw thee in a vision, even last night,

Thy countenance all radiant, sweet and bright,
And fond as ever; held thee in my arms,
And gazed in rapture on thy well-known charms.

"Oh! what a pure, a holy calm delight
Pervades my bosom, vision of the night!
What comfort, peace, dost thou infuse within
My drooping heart, while in this world of sin
I yet remain! Oh! how much need have I
Of aid celestial!-here, alas! I sigh

And mourn my sins, my errors, yet would rise

Above all earthly frailties, seek the skies,

And see those glories, beauties, all divine,

Which round the throne of God for ever shine."

David Gray, Poet.*

EVERY town and village of Scotland has produced its poet, but not every one can boast, like Kirkintilloch, of a son who wrote such pure English verse as that of David Gray, the author of "The Luggie," a work which has raised his

We are indebted for the articles on David Gray and Walter Watson to Mr. James Blackwood.

name among the greatest of minor poets of Britain, and which must be a never-dying one to those who value genius.

David Gray was born on 29th January, 1838, in a small cottage, situated at Merkland, about a mile from Kirkintilloch, and was the eldest of a family of eight, five boys and three girls. His father was a handloom weaver, of honest, Scottish nature, and it was the wish of his parents' hearts to see David, one day, a minister of the Free Church of Scotland.

With this object he was sent to the parish school of Kirkintilloch, and afterwards to attend Glasgow University. As time passed, however, he evinced no love for a ministerial calling, but dreamed of poetry and song, occasionally contributing small pieces to the columns of the Glasgow Citizen, and spending his spare moments in wandering about the banks of his native Luggie, a stream which meanders through many a delightful scene of nature's handiwork.

His parents viewed all this with mingled feelings. They were proud of the praise which was beginning to pour upon the head of their eldest born, but anxious that he should settle down to some permanent calling. Meantime “The Luggie was composed, the result of his love for his home's surroundings, but how was he, an unknown youth, just out of his teens, to make his influence felt in a great world, and obtain even a publisher willing to bring it forth? In 1859 he wrote to men of influence, asking their assistance, but some of these must have smiled at the wild enthusiasm of the author, and he met with little encouragement.

What could they think of a young man speaking thus? "I am a poet, let that be understood distinctly. I tell you that if I live, my name and fame shall be second to few of