nd never despair!

JOHN DUNLOP.

The author of some popular songs, and of four volumes of MS. poetry,
John Dunlop is entitled to a place in the catalogue of Caledonian
lyrists. The younger son of Colin Dunlop of Carmyle, he was born in
November 1755, in the mansion of the paternal estate, in the parish of
Old Monkland, and county of Lanark. Commencing his career as a merchant
in Glasgow, he was in 1796 elevated to the Lord Provostship of the city.
He afterwards accepted the office of Collector of Customs at
Borrowstounness, and subsequently occupied the post of Collector at
Port-Glasgow. His death took place at Port-Glasgow, in October 1820.

Possessed of fine poetic tastes and an elegant fancy, Dunlop composed
verses on every variety of theme, with facility and power. His MS.
volumes, which have been kindly submitted to our inspection by a
descendant, and from which we have made some extracts, contain numerous
poetical compositions worthy of being presented to the public. A vein of
humour pervades the majority of his verses; in the elegiac strain he is
eminently plaintive. He is remembered as a man of excellent dispositions
and eminent social qualities: he sung with grace the songs of his
country, and delighted in humorous conversation. His elder brother was
proprietor of Garnkirk, and his son, who bore the same Christian name,
became Sheriff of Renfrewshire. The latter is entitled to remembrance as
the author of "The History of Fiction."

THE YEAR THAT'S AWA'.

Here's to the year that's awa'!
We will drink it in strong and in sma';
And here's to ilk bonnie young lassie we lo'ed,
While swift flew the year that's awa'.
And here's to ilk, &c.

Here's to the sodger who bled,
And the sailor who bravely did fa';
Their fame is alive, though their spirits are fled
On the wings of the year that's awa'.
Their fame is alive, &c.

Here's to the friends we can trust
When the storms of adversity blaw;
May they live in our song, and be nearest our hearts,
Nor depart like the year that's awa'.
May they live, &c.

OH, DINNA ASK ME.

TUNE--_'Comin' through the rye.'_

Oh, dinna ask me gin I lo'e thee;
Troth, I daurna tell:
Dinna ask me gin I lo'e ye;
Ask it o' yoursel'.

Oh, dinna look sae sair at me,
For weel ye ken me true;
Oh, gin ye look sae sair at me,