In many respects Mackay is a typical representative of the northern counties, where the intense Celtic spirit and feelings of nationality which characterise Argyllshire Celts do not prevail so extensively. The Teutonic element brought in by the Norse is stronger in the North, and may partly account for this apparent lack of Celtic enthusiasm and of the usual Celtic grace of style. In his own way, though exercising his sportive muse in a more confined and humbler sphere, Rob Donn might be described as a sort of Highland Praed or Calverley. The bard was in the service of two of his clan on whom he has composed well-known elegies. These two were Lord Reay and John Mackay. The elegy on the latter has been translated as follows by the clansman already referred to in a good sketch which appeared some years ago in a London periodical:— Some keep the verbal law of man, And yet hard creditors are they; They store what legally they can, What the law _makes_ them, that they pay! Though want and misery they see, Not less through pity grows their sum; Shut eyes and purse alike will be Against the poor and needy one! This bastard honour grows apace— The creed of numbers beyond ken, Who, greatly to their own disgrace, Would rather owe to God than men! Theirs will be loss beyond recall When God shall sum up all their debt— “Thou heededst not the poor man’s call, I also will thy prayers forget!” * * * * * If thou another’s want didst know Thou couldst not in thy goods rejoice; Towards the poor thy heart would glow Although his wants ne’er found a voice. Ah, sooner lose a pound of gold Than take to thee an ounce of sin,— The waters shall bring manifold For all thy treasures cast therein! I saw the gentle who was poor, And he was full of gloom and grief, He passed the once wide-opened door Where now no more he finds relief! I saw the widow in her tears, I saw the beggar hungering; The orphan now unclothed appears Unnoticed by the unpitying! Who needs advice must want it now, And see the prosperous times depart; All clouded is the poet’s brow, With none to reverence his art. None seek to make the poor rejoice; And when I ask why joys are fled, They answer me with tearful voice— “Alas! is not MacEachainn dead?” I see the gathering of the poor— Now poor indeed since thou art dead, And closed for aye the open door Where Love consoled and Bounty fed! And strangers now are praised to me As lib’ral—I knew only _one_— But ah! the wandering stars we see After the setting of the sun! DUNCAN MACINTYRE.