Sweet are the little brooks that run Where are ye, pastoral, pretty sheep, Alas! instead of harmless crooks, And skin-not shear-the lambs. The pipe whereon, in olden day, But merely breathes unwelcome fumes, All rural things are vilely mock'd, An Ingram's rustic chair! Where are ye, London meads and bowers, And gardens redolent of flowers Wherein the zephyr wons? Alas! Moor Fields are fields no more! No pastoral scene procures me peace; No cot set round with trees: No sheep-white hill my dwelling flanks; With brokers, not with bees. Oh well may poets make a fuss My heart is all at pant to rest "WITH a popular impress, people would read and admire the beauties of Allan as it is, they may perhaps only note his defects-or, what is worse, not note him at all. But never mind them, honest Allan; you are a credit to Cale. donia for all that. There are some lyrical effusions of his, too, which you would do well to read, Captain. It's hame, and it's hame,' is equal to Burns." Introductory Epistle to the Fortunes of Nigel. Such praise from so distinguished a source, gives us a more correct idea of the poetical merits of Allan Cunningham than could be afforded by a more laboured eulogy. This poet, who may be considered one of the best, if not the best, of the numerous intellectual progeny of Burns, was born at Blackwood, in the neighbourhood of Dumfries, North Britain, on the 7th of December, 1784. His father and grandfather had been settled at the above-mentioned place as farmers: and an ancestor of the poet, we are informed, was an officer of the great Montrose. Allan was destined at an early period to try his fortune in India, where the industry and perseverance which have been so successful in London, would probably have been shown upon a more extensive field, and crowned with a more splendid remuneration, as far as mere wealth is concerned -but on account of the failure of a relative, by whom a situation in the East was to be procured, the experiment was never tried. In consequence of this disappointment, young Cunningham, at the age of eleven, was removed, sorely against his will, from school, and placed under an elder brother, who was a mason, and with whom he soon became a skilful workman. His earliest propensities showed themselves rather in a thirst for general knowledge, than an exclusive love of poetry, and thus he was enabled to acquire those resources and habits which enabled him to excel, at a future period, in the departments of criticism, biography, and the fine arts, as well as that of song. The first attempt of Cunningham in authorship was rather singular. Cromek, who was an enthusiast about the poetical treasures of the land of Burns, and who was in search of them with a perseverance equal to his enthusiasm, received from the young mason several songs and ballads, as relics of former years, and which he published in his Remains of Nithsdale and Galloway Song, a volume of which they constituted the choicest ornaments. But it was this very excellence that occasioned the detection of their author. It was declared that these specimens were too good to be ancient; and the eager inquiry which was made about their origin, obliged Cunningham, who was no doubt amused as well as gratified at the popularity they had acquired, to acknowledge them as his own productions. In 1810, he repaired to London; and his Sir Marmaduke Maxwell, a dramatic poem, the characters and scenery of which belong to his native Nithsdale, and several occasional pieces which followed, raised him to that high rank which he now holds among the poets of the nineteenth century. After devoting himself to literature as a profession in the metropolis during four years, with great diligence and success, he became superintendent of the works of the late Sir Francis Chantrey. Indeed the whole career of the young Scotchman in London was exempted from most of those trials and difficulties which beset the literary adventurers of our metropolis; but this was owing to his own prudence and manly straight-forward integrity, that kept him in the right path. The quantity of poetry which Cunningham has given to the world is small, compared with his powers to delight in that department, and the opportunities of a long life; but what he has written is of sterling merit. When he writes, also, it is evident that his heart is in Scotland, while the legends of his early days, and the scenery of his birth-place, supply him with never-failing themes of interest. His prose works also are numerous, consisting chiefly of lives of the eminent painters and sculptors of Britain, and two Novels. But with a mind as active, and a constitution as vigorous as ever, and with the advantage of more extensive stores of thought, and a matured experience, the hope is not unreasonable, that his future literary labours will surpass in merit all that he has yet accomplished. A wet sheet and a flowing sea, A wind that follows fast, And fills the white and rustling sail, O for a soft and gentle wind! I heard a fair one cry; But give to me the snoring breeze, And white waves heaving high: And white waves heaving high, my boys, The good ship tight and free The world of waters is our home, And merry men are we. There's tempest in yon horned moon, And lightning in yon cloud; And hark! the music, mariners, BONNIE LADY ANN. There's kames o' honey 'tween my luve's lips, Her breasts are lapt in a holie veil; Nae mortal een look there. What lips dare kiss, or what hand dare touch, The honey lips, the creamy palm, Or the waist, o' Lady Ann. She kisses the lips o' her bonnie red rose, But nae gentle lip, nor semple lip, Maun touch her Ladie mou. But a broider'd belt, wi' a buckle o' gold, Her jimpy waist maun span― O she's an armfu' fit for heaven, My bonnie Ladie Ann. Her bower casement is latticed wi' flowers, Tied up wi' silver thread, An' comely sits she in the midst, Men's longing een to feed. She waves the ringlets frae her cheek, Wi' her milky, milky han', An' her cheeks seem touch'd wi' the finger o' God, My bonnie Ladie Ann. The morning cloud is tassel'd wi' gold, Like my luve's broider'd cap, An' on the mantle which my luve wears Her bonnie eebrow's a holie arch Cast by no earthlie han'; An' the breath o' Heaven's atween the lips O' my bonnie Ladie Ann! I am her father's gardener lad, An' poor, poor is my fa'; My auld mither gets my sair-won fee, My een are bauld, they dwall on a place But I water, and tend, and kiss the flowers THE LASS OF PRESTON-MILL. The lark had left the evening cloud, Its gentle breath amang the flowers The stars were blinking o'er the hill, Her naked feet amang the grass Shone like two dewy lilies fair; Her brow beam'd white aneath her locks Quoth I, Fair lass, wilt thou gang wi' me, I have look'd long for a weel-faur'd lass, I said, Sweet maiden, look nae down, That weel could win a woman's will; Quoth the lovely lass of Preston-mill. |