The poetic remains of Dougal Buchanan do not afford extensive materials for translation. The subjects with which he deals are too solemn, and their treatment too surcharged with scriptural imagery, to be available for the purposes of a popular collection, of which the object is not directly religious. The only exception that occurs, perhaps, is his poem on "The Skull." Even in this case some moral pictures[105] have been omitted, as either too coarsely or too solemnly touched, to be fit for our purpose. A few lines of the conclusion are also omitted, as being mere amplifications of Scripture--wonderful, indeed, in point of vernacular beauty or sublimity, but not fusible for other use. Slight traces of imitation may be perceived; "The Grave" of Blair, and some passages of "Hamlet," being the apparent models. [102] "Statistical Account of Fortingall."--Stat. Acc., x., p. 549. [103] The same account observes that though none of his works are published but his sacred compositions, he composed "several songs on various subjects." [104] Published at Glasgow, 1836. [105] These are his descriptions of "The Drunkard," "The Glutton," and "The Good and Wicked Pastor." A CLAGIONN. THE SKULL. As I sat by the grave, at the brink of its cave Lo! a featureless skull on the ground; The symbol I clasp, and detain in my grasp, While I turn it around and around. Without beauty or grace, or a glance to express Of the bystander nigh, a thought; Its jaw and its mouth are tenantless both, Nor passes emotion its throat. No glow on its face, no ringlets to grace Its brow, and no ear for my song; Hush'd the caves of its breath, and the finger of death The raised features hath flatten'd along. The eyes' wonted beam, and the eyelids' quick gleam-- The intelligent sight, are no more; But the worms of the soil, as they wriggle and coil, Come hither their dwellings to bore. No lineament here is left to declare If monarch or chief art thou; Alexander the Brave, as the portionless slave That on dunghill expires, is as low. Thou delver of death, in my ear let thy breath Who tenants my hand, unfold; That my voice may not die without a reply, Though the ear it addresses is cold. Say, wert thou a May,[106] of beauty a ray, And flatter'd thine eye with a smile? Thy meshes didst set, like the links of a net, The hearts of the youth to wile? Alas every charm that a bosom could warm Is changed to the grain of disgust! Oh, fie on the spoiler for daring to soil her Gracefulness all in the dust! Say, wise in the law, did the people with awe Acknowledge thy rule o'er them-- A magistrate true, to all dealing their due, And just to redress or condemn? Or was righteousness sold for handfuls of gold In the scales of thy partial decree;