[WE consider ourselves and our readers very fortunate indeed in having procured the following as the first of a series of contributions from Mr William Allan, Sunderland, whose recent publication—"Heather Bells, or Poems and Songs"—has been so favourably received by the Reviewers. A prior publication—"Hame-spun Lilts"—was also well received. Of the author, the _Inverness Courier_ of 19th August, says—"You will fail, if you try, to find from first to last the slightest imitation of a single one of the many that, within the last hundred years, have so deftly handled the Doric lyre. Before the appearance of this volume, Mr Allan was already favourably known to us as the author of 'Hame-spun Lilts,' 'Rough Castings,' and by many lively lilts besides in the poets' column of the _Glasgow Weekly Herald_. There is about everything he has written a sturdy, honest, matter-of-fact ring, that convinces you that, whether you rank it high or low, his song—like the wild warblings of the song-thrush in early spring—is from the very heart. All he says and sings he really means; and it is something in these days of so many artificial, lack-a-daisical, 'spasmodic' utterances, to meet with anybody so manifestly honest and thoroughly in earnest as Mr William Allan." The _Dundee Advertiser_ of August 17th concludes a long and very favourable review of "Heather Bells, &c."—"The 'Harp of the North,' so beautifully invoked by Sir Walter in his 'Lady of the Lake,' has been long asleep—her mountains are silent—and what if our Laureate of Calydon—our Modern Ossian—were destined to hail from Bonnie Dundee?" _The Scotsman_ of Oct. 1st, says—"There is true pathos in many of the poems. Such a piece as 'Jessie's Leavin'' must find its way to the hearts in many a cottage home. Indeed, 'Heather Bells,' both deserves, and bids fair to acquire, popularity."] Dark Winter's white shroud on the mountains was lying, And deep lay the drifts in each corrie and vale, Snow-clouds in their anger o'er heaven were flying, Far-flinging their wrath on the frost-breathing gale;— Undaunted by tempests in majesty roaring, Unawed by the gloom of each path-covered glen, As swift as the rush of a cataract pouring, The mighty Montrose led his brave Highlandmen:— Over each trackless waste, Trooping in glory's haste, Dark-rolling and silent as mist on the heath, Resting not night nor day, Fast on their snowy way They dauntlessly sped on the pinions of death.