ertook to secure for the firm
the appointment of printers to the University; he declined, however, to
undergo the risk implied in this adventure. Again entertaining the hope
of procuring a situation in London, he left Glasgow towards the close of
1810, with the intention of visiting his college friend, Mr Wilson, at
Elleray, in Cumberland, to consult with him on the subject of his views.
He only reached the distance of Moffat; he was there struck with an
apoplectic seizure, which, after a brief illness, terminated his hopeful
career, in the 28th year of his age. His remains were interred in the
churchyard of Moffat. Possessed of a fine genius, extensive scholarship,
and an amiable heart, John Finlay, had he been spared, would have
adorned the literature of his country. He entertained worthy
aspirations, and was amply qualified for success; for his energies were
co-extensive with his intellectual gifts. At the period of his death, he
was meditating a continuation of Warton's History of Poetry. His best
production is the poem of "Wallace," written in his nineteenth year;
though not free from defects, it contains many admirable descriptions of
external nature, and displays much vigour of versification. His lyrics
are few, but these merit a place in the minstrelsy of his country.

[24] A third edition was published at Glasgow, by R. Chapman, in 1817.

O! COME WITH ME.

TUNE--_"Roslin Castle."_

O! come with me, for the queen of night
Is throned on high in her beauty bright:
'Tis now the silent hour of even,
When all is still in earth an' heaven;
The cold flowers which the valleys strew
Are sparking bright wi' pearly dew,
And hush'd is e'en the bee's soft hum,
Then come with me, sweet Mary, come.

The opening blue-bell--Scotland's pride--
In heaven's pure azure deeply dyed;
The daisy meek frae the dewy dale,
The wild thyme, and the primrose pale,
Wi' the lily frae the glassy lake,
Of these a fragrant wreath I 'll make,
And bind them 'mid the locks that flow
In rich luxuriance from thy brow.

O, love, without thee, what were life?
A bustling scene of care and strife;
A waste, where no green flowery glade
Is found for shelter or for shade.
But cheer'd by thee, the griefs we share
We can with calm composure bear;
For the darkest nicht o' care and toil.
Is bricht when blest by woman's smile.

'TIS NOT T