e's hopeless lot must dree:
Stand fast, stand fast, Craig Elachie!

Yet strong as thou the Grant shall rise,
Cleft from his clansmen's sympathies;
In these grim wastes new homes we 'll rear,
New scenes shall wear old names so dear;
And while our axes fell the tree,
Resound old Scotia's minstrelsy:
Stand fast, stand fast, Craig Elachie!

Here can no treacherous chief betray
For sordid gain our new Strathspey;
No fearful king, no statesmen pale,
Wrench the strong claymore from the Gael.
With arm'd wrist and kilted knee,
No prairie Indian half so free:
Stand fast, stand fast, Craig Elachie!

JOHN FINLAY.

John Finlay was born at Glasgow in 1808, and is one of the partners in
the respectable firm of R. G. Finlay & Co., manufacturers in that city.
Amidst due attention to the active prosecution of business, he has long
been keenly devoted to the principal national games--curling, angling,
bowling, quoiting, and archery--in all of which he has frequently
carried off prizes at the various competitions throughout the country.
To impart humorous sociality to the friendly meetings of the different
societies of which he is a member, Mr Finlay was led to become a
song-writer. There is scarcely a characteristic of any of his favourite
games which he has not celebrated in racy verse. Some of his songs have
obtained celebrity in certain counties where the national sports are
peculiarly cultivated.

THE NOBLE SCOTTISH GAME.

AIR--_"Castles in the Air."_

The King is on the throne wi' his sceptre an' his croon,
The elements o' cauld are the courtiers staunin' roun';
He lifts his icy haun', an' he speaks wi' awe profound,
He chills the balmy air, and he binds the yielding ground;
He calms the raging winds when they moan and loudly rave,
He stops the rinnin' stream, and he stills the dancin' wave;
He calls the curlers on to the field of hope and fame,
An' the spreading lake resounds wi' the noble Scottish game!

The hedges an' the trees are a' hung wi' pearls braw,
An' the rinks are glancing clear 'mang the heaps o' shinin' snaw;
The wee birds in the blast are a' tremblin' wi' the cauld;
The sheep are lyin' close in the safely guarded fauld;
The farmer leaves the plough, an' the weaver leaves the loom,
Auld age gangs totterin' by wi' the youth in manhood's bloom;
The miseries o' life are a'