bute verses to the public journals in his eighteenth
year, and soon after composed a series of poems, entitled "Lays of the
Covenanters," which appeared in one of the Glasgow newspapers. Of
extreme political opinions, he upheld his peculiar views in a series of
satirical compositions both in prose and verse, which, by leading
dissolute persons to seek his society, proved the commencement of a most
unfortunate career. Habits of irregularity were contracted; he ceased to
engage in the duties of his calling: and leaving his wife and family of
young children without any means of support, he became a reckless
wanderer. He afterwards emigrated to the United States, but at the
expiry of sixteen months re-appeared in Glasgow. He now became steady;
and joining the Total Abstinence Society, advocated the cause of
sobriety in a number of temperance songs. Renouncing his pledge, he soon
returned to his former habits. He proceeded to Ireland, where he
supported himself as a public reciter of popular Scottish ballads. He
contributed to the _Banner of Ulster_ a narrative of his experiences in
America; and published at Belfast, in a separate volume, his "Lays of
the Covenanters," two abridged editions of which were subsequently
printed and circulated in Glasgow. Returning to his native city, he was
fortunate in receiving the kindly patronage of Dr John Smith of the
_Examiner_ newspaper, who paid him a stipulated salary as a contributor.
After a period of illness, his death took place at the village of
Thornliebank, near Glasgow, on the 7th December 1851. In "The Songs for
the Nursery," an interesting little work published by Mr David Robertson
of Glasgow in 1846, ten pieces are from his pen. A poem which he
composed in his latter years entitled "The Progress of Society, in five
books," is still in MS. Amidst all his failings Donald maintained a
sense of religion. Evincing a sincere regret for the errors of his life,
he died in Christian hope.

THE SPRING TIME O' LIFE.

AIR--_"O wat ye wha I met yestreen?"_

The summer comes wi' rosy wreaths,
And spreads the mead wi' fragrant flowers,
While furthy autumn plenty breathes,
And blessings in abundance showers.
E'en winter, wi' its frost and snaw,
Brings meikle still the heart to cheer,
But there's a season worth them a',
And that's the spring-time o' the year.

In spring the farmer ploughs the field
That yet will wave wi' yell