Alexander never forgot his roots
Mine of information
One of my proudest moments was being invited to the unveiling of a memorial to poet Alexander McLachlan.
The bard was born in Johnstone before going on to become the ‘Robert Burns of Canada’.
But no honour existed to mark this local boy in his home town.
I informed the late MP Gordon McMaster of this oversight.
His only memorial was in Orangeville, Ontario, where he died on March 20, 1896.
The parliamentarian followed up my request and it was a delight to see a commemorative plaque honouring the bard installed in the Johnstone Town Hall foyer.
Born at the Old Brig o’ Johnstone hamlet in 1818, close to what is now Paton’s Mill, young Alexander’s poetic genius was inspired by the beautiful woods bordering the nearby River Black Cart.
They were known locally as Cartha after a Celtic water goddess.
His neighbourhood was an earthly paradise, with the silvery waters of the river cascading merrily through the Hagg woodlands. Derek Parker knew many of Paisley’s secrets — the grimy and the good.
He wandered every corner in search of the clues that would unlock Renfrewshire’s rich history.
These tales were shared with readers in his hugely popular Parker’s Way column.
We’ve opened our vault to handpick our favourites for you.
They flowed across emerald meadows towards the picturesque stepping stones ford at Linwood.
Leaving school aged 13, Alexander worked in the Johnstone cotton mills, then as a tailor’s apprentice, before emigrating to the New World nine years later.
He fell in love with Canada immediately.
He worked as a lumberjack, farmer, lecturer and tailor.
His finest poems enshrine the sacred spirit of unexplored prairies, swamps and mighty fir-fragranced forests.
These happy days in the woodland wildernesses inspired his greatest works, including The Old Settler’s Address to His Loghouse and the Backwoods Philosopher.
Alexander made several return visits to the town where he was born — but was saddened by what he saw.
The proliferation of huge factories, dingy houses, cholera plagues, sewagestrewn streets and booze-inspired brawls disillusioned him.
He was further sickened by the long hours and unhealthy working conditions endured by mill-hands and miners, including small children.
But his soul was forever embosomed in his boyhood haunts.
He wrote in his epitaph: “In a grave o’ the forest with life’s journey past, unknown and unhonoured they’ll lay me at last.
“But surely, ah surely, the love o’ this heart, for thee, lovely Cartha, can never depart.
“Then free frae a’ sorrow an’ sadness and pain, My spirit shall haunt thee, dear Cartha again.”