the family circle. Acquiring facility in the production of verses, he
was at length induced to venture on a publication. In 1818 he gave to
the world a "Pamphlet of Rhymes," which, obtaining a ready sale, induced
him to publish a second small collection of verses in 1821. After an
interval devoted to mental improvement, he appeared, in 1834, as the
author of "The Peasant, a Poem in Nine Cantos, with other Poems," in one
volume, 12mo. In the following year he published "The Child of Nature,
and other Poems," in a thin duodecimo volume. In 1853 he printed, by
subscription, a third volume, entitled "Rosaline's Dream, in Four Duans,
and other Poems," which was accompanied with an introductory essay by
the Rev. George Gilfillan. His latest production--"The Fountain of the
Rock, a Poem"--appeared in a pamphlet form, in 1855. He has repeatedly
written prose tales for the periodicals, and has contributed verses to
_Blackwood's Magazine_ and the _Edinburgh Literary Journal_.

From the labour of a long career of honourable industry, John Nevay is
now enjoying the pleasures of retirement. He continues to compose verses
with undiminished ardour, and has several MS. poems ready for the press.
He has also prepared a lengthened autobiography. As a poet, his
prevailing themes are the picturesque objects of nature. His lyrical
pieces somewhat lack simplicity. His best production--"The Emigrant's
Love-letter"--will maintain a place in the national minstrelsy. It was
composed during the same week with Motherwell's "Jeanie Morrison," which
it so peculiarly resembles both in expression and sentiment.

THE EMIGRANT'S LOVE-LETTER.

My young heart's luve! twal' years ha'e been
A century to me;
I ha'e na seen thy smile, nor heard
Thy voice's melodie.
The mony hardships I ha'e tholed
Sin' I left Larocklea,
I maun na tell, for it would bring
The saut tear in thine e'e.

But I ha'e news, an' happy news,
To tell unto my love--
What I ha'e won, to me mair dear
That it my heart can prove.
Its thochts unchanged, still it is true,
An' surely sae is thine;
Thou never, never canst forget
That twa waur ane langsyne.

The simmer sun blinks on the tarn,
An' on the primrose brae,
Where we, in days o' innocence,
Waur wont to daff an' play;
An' I amang the mossy springs
Wade for the hinny blooms--
To thee the rush tiara wove