At one period, M'Laren established himself as a manufacturer in Ireland; but, rendering himself obnoxious by the bold expression of his political opinions, he found it necessary to make a hasty departure for Scotland. He latterly opened a change-house in Paisley, and his circumstances became considerably prosperous. He died in 1832, leaving a family. He is remembered as a person of somewhat singular manners, and of undaunted enterprise and decision of character. He was shrewd and well-informed, without much reading; he purchased no books, but was ingenious and successful in recommending his own.[71]
[71] Mr James Bowie, of Paisley, to whom we are under obligations for supplying curious and interesting information regarding several of the bards of the west, kindly furnished the particulars of the above memoir.
Now summer shines with gaudy pride, By flowery vale and mountain side, And shepherds waste the sunny hours By cooling streams, and bushy bowers; While I, a victim to despair, Avoid the sun's offensive glare, And in sequester'd wilds deplore The perjured vows of Ella More.
Would Fate my injured heart provide Some cave beyond the mountain tide, Some spot where scornful Beauty's eye Ne'er waked the ardent lover's sigh; I 'd there to woods and rocks complain, To rocks that skirt the angry main; For angry main, and rocky shore, Are kinder far than Ella More.
And dost thou speak sincere, my love? And must we ever part? And dost thou unrelenting see The anguish of my heart? Have e'er these doating eyes of mine, One wandering wish express'd? No; thou alone hast ever been Companion of my breast.
I saw thy face, angelic fair, I thought thy form divine, I sought thy love--I gave my heart, And hoped to conquer thine. But, ah! delusive, cruel hope! Hope now for ever gone! My Mary keeps the heart I gave, But with it keeps her own.
When many smiling summer suns Their silver light has shed, And wrinkled age her hoary hairs Waves lightly o'er my head; Even then, in life's declining hour, My heart will fondly trace The beauties of thy lovely form, And sweetly smiling face.
Though the winter of age wreathes her snow on his head, And the blooming effulgence of summer has fled, Though the voice, that was sweet as the harp's softest string, Be trem'lous, and low as the zephyrs of spring, Yet say not the Bard has turn'd old.