One of the best criticisms on MacColl’s poetry comes from the pen of Hugh Miller: “There is more of fancy than of imagination in the poetry of MacColl, and more of thought and imagery than of feeling. In point, glitter, polish, he is the Moore of Highland song. Comparison and ideality are the leading features of his mind. Some of the pieces in this volume are sparkling tissues of comparison from beginning to end.” JAMES MUNRO. A little volume, _Am Filldh_, mostly written by James Munro (1840), author of the “Gaelic Grammar,” contains a great deal of first-class poetry. In the composition of small pieces of the sentimental kind, Munro is scarcely inferior to Livingston in freshness and condensation, and is MacColl’s equal. We have in the “Filidh” several pieces by other hands, as well as excellent translations from the English. Munro was a man of thorough culture, and profoundly acquainted with the extent and idioms of the Gaelic language. Of all this there is undoubted evidence in his poetry. Here is a rendering of one of Munro’s songs, which is attached to a very fine air:— Dark winter is going; Kind breezes are blowing; The mountains are glowing With colours more fair. The face of the flowers Grows fresh ’neath the showers; And warmer the bowers Appear in the glare. The summer advances With heat-shedding glances; His sunny beam dances With joy on the cold. The little birds singing, The woodlands are ringing; The primrose is springing To deck the green wold. The sun in fresh power Calls forth bird and bower In robes of fair flower Enchanting to see But, honey-lipt lover, Thy charms I look over; In them I discover Sweet beauties more rare. Come with me, then, dearest, To woodlands the nearest, To plight troth sincerest Of love evermore. JOHN MACLACHLAN.