early made himself acquainted with general literature, while he has
sought recreation in the composition of verses. In 1850 he published a
small duodecimo volume of lyrics, entitled, "Doric Lays; being snatches
of Song and Ballad." This little work was much commended by Lord
Jeffrey, and received the strong approbation of the late amiable Miss
Mitford. "There is," wrote the latter to a correspondent, "an
originality in his writings very rare in a follower of Burns.... This is
the true thing--a flower springing from the soil, not merely cut and
stuck into the earth. Will you tell Mr Crawford how much pleasure he has
given to a poor invalid?"

Crawford is an occasional contributor to the public journals. He is at
present preparing an historical and descriptive work, to be entitled,
"Memorials of the Town and Parish of Alloa." The following poetical
epistle in tribute to his genius is from the pen of Mr Scott Riddell.

The days, when write wad minstrel men
To ane anither thus, are gone,
And days ha'e come upon us when
Bards praise nae anthems but their own:
But I will love the fashion old
While breath frae heaven this breast can draw,
And joy when I my tale have told
Anent the Bard of Alloa.

Thou, Crawford, sung hast mony a lay.
Far mair through nature's power than art's,
Pouring them frae thine ain, that they
Might reach and gladden other hearts;
Therefore our hearts shall honour thee,
And say't alike in cot and ha'--
Sublime thro' pure simplicity
Is he--the Bard of Alloa.

Though far o'er earth these lays shall roam,
And make to mankind their appeal;
'Tis not because they 'll lack a home,
While Scottish hearts, as wont, can feel:
The swains shall sing them on the hill,
The maidens in the greenwood-shaw,
And mothers bless, wi' warm guid-will,
The gifted Bard of Alloa.

E'en weans, wi' their shauchled shoon,
And clouted hose, and pinafores,
Will lilt, methinks, these lays, sae soon
As they can staucher 'boot the doors:
Sae shall they sing anent themsells
To nature true, as its ain law;
For minstrel nane on earth excels
In this the Bard of Alloa.

Fresh as the moorland's early dews,
And glowing as the woodland rose,
Of hearts, his thought gives forth the hues,
As richly bright as heaven's ain bow 's--
With me, my native lan