The late Dr Maclachlan of Rahoy, in Morven, stands high as a poet. A little volume of his poems was published in 1868. Like all the singers whose works have become popular in the Highlands, all that he wrote was intended to be sung. He looks at nature as a man of culture and tender sympathies, and with an independent eye; and what he sings comes with all the freshness of the evening breeze as it sweeps o’er the Highland loch. One theme he especially dwells on—the depopulation of the Highlands. His heart is saddened as he sees the Lowland shepherd, who has no sympathy with the place, the people, or their language, treading with his dogs the glens and hillsides where many expatriated Gaels had once their happy homes. He has also written several love lyrics which are admirable in conception and expression. A song on “Drink,” _Cha’n òl mi deur tuille_, is the best of that sort in the language. Dr Maclachlan lived all his days in Morven, beside his accomplished neighbour, the Rev. Dr John MacLeod, himself a man of no mean poetic powers. Although a skilful practitioner, and possessing considerable talents, he never sought for a more ambitious sphere. He loved the people around—he was widely known—and they loved him in return. He never married, and he lived till he was an old man, not perhaps less liked by his neighbours for his weakness for a dram, which he and they thought a necessary beverage in chill and misty Morven. Here is a translation, well executed by Mr H. Whyte, of one of Maclachlan’s poems:— O lovely glen! as through a haze Of tears that dim mine eye, Upon thy futile fields I gaze, Fair as in days gone by. Thy stately pines their tall heads rear O’er fairy knolls and braes; Thy purling streamlets now I hear, Like music’s sweetest lays. Thy herds are feeding as of yore With sheep upon the lea; The heron fishes in the shore, The white-gull on the sea. The cuckoo’s voice is heard at dawn, The dove coos in the tree; The lark, above thy grassy lawn, Now carols loud with glee. Repose supremely reigns o’er all, Low crowns the mountains hoar; And vividly they now recall The days that are no more. Thy gurgling brooks, and winds that fleet Through groves of stately pine, Awaken with their converse sweet Sad thoughts of auld lang syne. Thy peaceful dwellings, once so bright, In dreary ruins lie; The traveller sees not from the height The smoke ascending high. To yonder garden once thy pride, No one attention shows, And weeds grow thickly side by side, Where bloomed the blushing rose. Where are the friends of worthy fame, Their hearts on kindness bent; Whose welcome cheered me when I came, Who blessed me as I went?