Dr Duncan was twice married; first in 1804, to Miss Craig, the only surviving daughter of his predecessor, and secondly in 1836, to Mrs Lundie, the relict of his friend Mr Lundie, minister of Kelso. His memoirs have been published by his son, the Rev. George John C. Duncan, minister of the Free Church, Greenwich. A man of fine intellect, extensive and varied scholarship, and highly benevolent dispositions, Dr Duncan was much cherished and beloved alike by his parishioners and his gifted contemporaries. Pious and exemplary as became his profession, he was expert in business, and was largely endowed with an inventive genius. Though hitherto scarcely known as a poet, he wrote verses so early as his eleventh year, which are described by his biographer as having "evinced a maturity of taste, a refinement of thought, and an ease of diction which astonished and delighted his friends," and the specimens of his more mature lyrical compositions, which we have been privileged to publish from his MSS. are such as to induce some regret that they were not sooner given to the public. CURLING SONG. The music o' the year is hush'd, In bonny glen and shaw, man; And winter spreads o'er nature dead A winding sheet o' snaw, man. O'er burn and loch, the warlike frost, A crystal brig has laid, man; The wild geese screaming wi' surprise, The ice-bound wave ha'e fled, man. Up, curler, frae your bed sae warm, And leave your coaxing wife, man; Gae get your besom, tramps and stane, And join the friendly strife, man. For on the water's face are met, Wi' mony a merry joke, man; The tenant and his jolly laird, The pastor and his flock, man. The rink is swept, the tees are mark'd, The bonspiel is begun, man; The ice is true, the stanes are keen, Huzza for glorious fun, man! The skips are standing at the tee, To guide the eager game, man; Hush, not a word, but mark the broom, And tak' a steady aim, man. There draw a shot, there lay a guard, And here beside him lie, man; Now let him feel a gamester's hand, Now in his bosom die, man; Then fill the port, and block the ice, We sit upon the tee, man; Now tak' this in-ring, sharp and neat, And mak' their winner flee, man. How stands the game? Its eight and eight, Now for the winning shot, man; Draw slow and sure, and tak' your aim, I 'll sweep you to the spot, man. The stane is thrown, it glides along, The besoms ply it in, man; Wi' twisting back the player stands, And eager breathless grin, man. A moment's silence, still as death, Pervades the anxious thrang, man; When sudden bursts the victor's shout, With holla's loud and lang, man. Triumphant besom's wave in air, And friendly banters fly, man; Whilst, cold and hungry, to the inn, Wi' eager steps they hie, man.