to the poet in these words,
"I can remember when the appearance of such a work would have produced a
great sensation, and secured to its author both distinction and more
solid advantages." Among the last written of Lord Jeffrey's letters, was
one addressed to Mr Maclagan in regard to the second edition of his
Poems. Shortly after his patron's death, the poet found a new friend in
Lord Cockburn, who procured for him a junior clerkship in the office of
the Inland Revenue, Edinburgh. This situation proved, however, most
uncongenial; he found himself unsuited to the practice of lengthened
arithmetical summations, and he resigned his post under the promise of
being transferred to another department, more suitable to his habits. In
1851 he was, by a number of his admirers, entertained at a public dinner
in the hall attached to Burns' Cottage, and more lately he received a
similar compliment in his native town. Considerate attentions have been
shewn him by the Duchess of Sutherland, the Duke of Argyle, the Rev. Dr
Guthrie, and other distinguished individuals. In the autumn of 1856 he
had conferred on him by the Queen a small Civil List pension.

Mr Maclagan's latest publication, entitled, "Ragged and Industrial
School Rhymes," appeared in 1854, and has well sustained his reputation.
Imbued with a keen perception of the beautiful and pleasing, alike in
the natural and moral world, his poetry is marked by refinement of
thought, elegance of expression, and an earnest devotedness. In social
life he delights to depict the praises of virtue. The lover's tale he
has told with singular simplicity and tenderness.

FOOTNOTES:

[12] To Mr Disseret of Edinburgh we are indebted for the particulars of
Mr Maclagan's personal history.

CURLING SONG.

Hurrah for Scotland's worth and fame,
A health to a' that love the name;
Hurrah for Scotland's darling game,
The pastime o' the free, boys.
While head, an' heart, an' arm are strang,
We 'll a' join in a patriot's sang,
And sing its praises loud and lang--
The roarin' rink for me, boys.
Hurrah, hurrah, for Scotland's fame,
A health to a' that love the name;
Hurrah for Scotland's darling game;
The roarin' rink for me, boys.

Gie hunter chaps their break-neck hours,
Their slaughtering guns amang the muirs;
Let wily fisher prove his powers
At the flinging o' the flee, boys.
But let