Come, come away; come, come away;
Falling and frail is your cottage of clay;
Come, come away; come, come away:
Come to these mansions, there 's room yet for you,
Dwell with the Friend ever faithful and true;
Sing ye the song, ever old, ever new;
Come, come away; come away.

WILLIAM SINCLAIR.

A pleasing lyric poet, William Sinclair, was born at Edinburgh in 1811.
His father was a trader in the city. Receiving an ordinary education, he
became in his fourteenth year apprentice to a bookseller in Frederick
Street. A large circulating library connected with the establishment
enabled him to gratify an ardent love of reading, and brought him into
contact with persons of strong literary tastes. Quitting the business of
bookseller, he proceeded to Dundee, as clerk in a lawyer's office. He
afterwards accepted a situation in the Customs at Liverpool. His
official services were subsequently transferred to Leith, where he had
the privilege of associating with the poets Moir, Gilfillan, and Vedder.

Early devoted to song-writing, Mr Sinclair, while the bookseller's
apprentice, contributed verses to the newspapers and popular
periodicals. Some of his poetical compositions have appeared in
_Blackwood's Magazine_. The poet Robert Nicoll submitted the first
edition of his poems to his revision. In 1843 he published an octavo
volume of poems and songs, with the title "Poems of the Fancy and the
Affections." To Major de Renzy's "Poetical Illustrations of the
Achievements of the Duke of Wellington," published in 1852, he was a
conspicuous contributor. Several of his songs have been set to music. Mr
Sinclair has latterly resided in Stirling, where he holds the situation
of reporter to one of the local journals.

THE ROYAL BREADALBANE OAK.

Thy queenly hand, Victoria,
By the mountain and the rock,
Hath planted 'midst the Highland hills
A Royal British Oak;
Oh, thou guardian of the free!
Oh, thou mistress of the sea!
Trebly dear shall be the ties
That shall bind us to thy name,
Ere this Royal Oak shall rise
To thy fame, to thy fame!

The oak hath scatter'd terror
O'er our foemen from our ships,
They have given the voice of England's fame
In thunders from their lips;
'Twill be mirror'd in the rills!
It shall wave among the hills!
And the rallying cry shall wake
Nigh the planted of thy hand,