irtin' grieve thee,
Happier days may soon be here.
See yon bark, sae proudly bounding,
Soon shall bear me o'er the sea,
Hark! the trumpet loudly sounding
Calls me far frae love and thee.

Summer flowers shall cease to blossom;
Streams run backward frae the sea;
Cauld in death maun be this bosom,
Ere it cease to throb for thee.
Fare-thee-weel! may every blessin',
Shed by Heaven, around thee fa';
Ae last time thy loved form pressin'--
Think o' me when far awa'.

METRICAL TRANSLATIONS

FROM

The Modern Gaelic Minstrelsy.

JOHN MACDONALD, D.D.

The Rev. John Macdonald, D.D., one of the most popular of Gaelic
preachers, was born in 1778. He was ordained minister of the Gaelic
Church, Edinburgh, in 1806, and was afterwards translated to the parish
of Urquhart, in Ross-shire. While at Urquhart, he began a career of
remarkable ministerial success; though it was as a missionary, or
visitor of other Highland districts, that he established his
professional fame. His powerful voice is said to have reached and moved
thousands of auditors assembled in the open air. A long-expected volume
of Gaelic poetry, consisting chiefly of elegies, hymns, and sacred
lyrics, appeared from his pen in 1848. Dr Macdonald died in 1849. At the
Disruption in 1843, he had joined the Free Church.

THE MISSIONARY OF ST KILDA.

The descriptive portion of a sacred lyric composed by Dr Macdonald
on the occasion of his first visit to St Kilda, often called "_The
Hirt_" or "_Hirta_," after the Gaelic. His missionary enterprise was
blessed, we believe, with remarkable success.

I see, I see the Hirta, the land of my desire,
And the missionary spirit within me is on fire;
But needs it all--for, bristling from the bosom of the sea,
Those giant crags are menacing, but welcome rude to me;
The eye withdraws in horror from yon mountains rude and bare,
Where flag of green nor tree displays, nor blushes flow'ret fair.
And how shall bark so frail as mine that beetling beach come near,
Where rages betwixt cliff and surf the battle-din of fear?
It seems as, like a rocking hull, that Island of the main
Were shaken from its basement, and creaking with the strain!
But the siege of waters nought prevails 'gainst giant Hirt the grim,
Save his face to furrow with some scars, or his brow with mist to dim.
Oh,