We venture, in fine, to predict that dear to every Scottish heart shall for ever remain these beautiful fragments of Celtic verse—verse, we scruple not to say, containing in the Combat of Fingal with the Spirit of Loda, and in the Address to the Sun—two of the loftiest strains of poetic genius, vieing with, surpassing "all Greek, all Roman fame." And in spite of Brougham's sneer, and Johnson's criticisms, and the more insolent attacks of Macaulay, Scotchmen both Highland and Lowland will continue to hear in the monotony of the strain, the voice of the tempest, and the roar of the mountain torrent, in its abruptness they will see the beetling crag and the shaggy summit of the bleak Highland hill, in its obscurity and loud and tumid sounds, they will recognize the hollows of the deep glens and the mists which shroud the cataracts, in its happier and nobler measures, they will welcome notes of poetry worthy of the murmur of their lochs and the waving of their solemn forests, and never will they see Ben-Nevis looking down over his clouds or Loch Lomond basking amidst her sunny braes, or in grim Glencoe listen to the Cona singing her lonely and everlasting dirge beneath Ossian's Cave, which gashes the breast of the cliff above it, without remembering the glorious Shade from whose evanishing lips Macpherson has extracted the wild music of his mountain song. GEO. GILFILLAN. * * * * * ALASTAIR BUIDHE MACIAMHAIR, the Gairloch Bard, always wore a "_Cota Gearr_" of home-spun cloth, which received only a slight dip of indigo—the colour being between a pale blue and a dirty white. As he was wading the river Achtercairn, going to a sister's wedding, William Ross, the bard, accosted him on the other side, and addressing him said, 'S ann than aoibheal air bard an Rugha 'Sa phiuthar a dol a phosadh B-fhearr dhuit fuireach aig a bhaile Mo nach d' rinn thu malairt cota. To which _Alastair Buidhe_ immediately replied— Hud a dhuine! tha'n cota co'lach rium fhein Tha e min 'us tha e blath 'S air cho mor 's gha 'm beil do ruic-sa Faodaidh tusa leigeal da. MARY LAGHACH. FROM THE GAELIC, BY PROFESSOR BLACKIE. Ho! my bonnie Mary, My dainty love, my queen, The fairest, rarest Mary On earth was ever seen! Ho! my queenly Mary, Who made me king of men, To call thee mine own Mary, Born in the bonnie glen. Young was I and Mary, In the windings of Glensmoil, When came that imp of Venus And caught us with his wile; And pierced us with his arrows, That we thrilled in every pore, And loved as mortals never loved On this green earth before. Ho! my bonnie Mary, &c.