of Kilmarnock," in a
well-written octavo volume. A collection of his best songs was published
in 1855, under the title of "Ingleside Lilts." Mackay has contributed
extensively to the local journals, and has established a circulating
library for the benefit of his fellow-townsmen.

OUR AULD SCOTS SANGS.

AIR--_"Traveller's Return."_

Oh, weel I lo'e our auld Scots sangs,
The mournfu' and the gay;
They charm'd me by a mither's knee,
In bairnhood's happy day:
And even yet, though owre my pow
The snaws of age are flung,
The bluid loups joyfu' in my veins
Whene'er I hear them sung.

They bring the fond smile to the cheek,
Or tear-drap to the e'e;
They bring to mind auld cronies kind,
Wha sung them aft wi' glee.
We seem again to hear the voice
Of mony a lang-lost frien';
We seem again to grip the hand
That lang in dust has been.

And, oh, how true our auld Scots sangs
When nature they portray!
We think we hear the wee bit burn
Gaun bickering doun the brae;
We see the spot, though far awa',
Where first life's breath we drew,
And a' the gowden scenes of youth
Seem rising to the view.

And dear I lo'e the wild war strains
Our langsyne minstrels sung--
They rouse wi' patriotic fires
The hearts of auld and young;
And even the dowie dirge that wails
Some brave but ruin'd band,
Inspires us wi' a warmer love
For hame and fatherland.

Yes, leese me on our auld Scots sangs--
The sangs of love and glee,
The sangs that tell of glorious deeds
That made auld Scotland free.
What though they sprung frae simple bards,
Wha kent nae rules of art?
They ever, ever yield a charm
That lingers round the heart.

MY LADDIE LIES LOW.

Alas! how true the boding voice
That whisper'd aft to me,
"Thy bonnie lad will ne'er return
To Scotland or to thee!"
Oh! true it spoke, though hope the while
Shed forth its brightest beam;
For low in death my laddie lies
By Alma's bloody stream.

I heard the village bells proclaim
That glorious deeds were done;
I heard wi' joy the gladsome shout,
"The field, the field is won!"
And I thought my lad, wi' glory crown'd,
Might come to me again;
But vain the thought! cold, cold he lies
On Alma's gory