language and versification, or shapes, colours, or sounds. And none of the nations have been able to produce beautiful works of art, except such as have highly cultivated their perceptive faculties; while the nature of the meaning conveyed by these works was determined by the character of their minds in other respects. CROMEK'S REMAINS OF NITHSDALE AND GALLOWAY SONG. THE most remarkable poetry of Scot- fond recollection of the past, but to that mingled tenderness and fancy, which, in the poetry as well as the matter of these songs, characterizes the people. A dreaming imagination of passions making their own unhappiness upon an earth which does not seem fitted for their residence, is made the ground work of a poetry plaintive and beautiful with fancy. Out of this tenderness and fancy is formed a delicacy of sentiment which could hardly have been believed to exist among a people bound by toil to the land on which they tread: nor can it be understood, except by those who know them, although the poetry which, even in this day, has arisen from among them, still vindicates this character.One peculiarity may be observed of this most essentially national poetry of Scotland, that in the poetry which is serious or beautiful, there is no mark whatever of the strong intellectual character of her people. They are rather like strains of a plaintive music. Accordingly it may be doubted, whether the intellect of the people is in truth poetical. It might be plausibly argued, that it is much rather dialectic and practical merely, and grounds might be given for an opinion that it does not easily accommodate itself to the movements of poetry. Perhaps it might be shewn in some of the later poets of her civilized age, that they have failed in those parts of poetical composition which are peculiarly the work of intellect, and have injured their own poetry, when they have departed from that spirit of poetry which has belonged to their land-that it is there they are least original, and instead of their native spirit and grace, appear uncouthly as imitators. If there be any truth in these suggestions, it would follow that her poets might do better for their fame, if they would know more truly their country and themselves. If they would attach themselves to develope the seeds of poetry that are in themselves, and in the spirit of their native land. It is very difficult for any poet to maintain his own originality, because he is drawn unconsciously to imitate what he greatly admires; and it requires an effort over himself, a government of his own powers, to detach them from that admiration, and confine them within the sphere of their proper agency. Much more when he has once begun to give himself to a public, he has involved himself with their admiration; and it is far more difficult to him to recover his mind to its own independence. He has to shut out from his thoughts the world from which he derives his cele brity, to withdraw into himself, and in silence and forgetfulness of the world, to discover in his own bosom the sources of his powers. The genius of English poetry, may it be said without envy, discovers in a high degree this adaptation of intellect to poetry. Her greatest and most national poetry is intellectual. Such strains as the heart of Scotland has breathed she does not know. Her national poetry is that of Shakspeare, of Milton, of Spenser, minds in which imagination was throned in the seat of intellect. The poetry of Dryden and Pope is still of an intellectual order. And in another age and in another kind, of Collins, of Cowper, of Wordsworth. It may much be doubted if English poets will ever do justice to themselves who forget this character of the mind of their country. While they adhere to it, they will raise their own mind and that of the people to whom they speak. When they forget it, they must lower their own fame, and the intellectual power of the nation who consent to lavish on them their ill-merited applause. We have fallen into this train of thought, with a little volume of poetry lying before us,* which we believe attracted considerable attention, eight or ten years ago, when it was first published, and over which there has all along been felt to hang something of a mystery. For our own part, we believe, that the most beautiful things in it are not poems of the olden time at all, but have been created by a man of genius still alive, in the very spirit of antiquity. The late Mr Cromek was a man of considerable enthusiasm and ability; but he knew little about poetry, and absolutely nothing about the poetry of Scotland. He was precisely that kind of person to believe every thing he was told on that sub ject and having a vague notion, that the traditional songs of Scotland were pathetic and beautiful, he was ready to accept, as such, all verses written in the Scottish dialect, that breathed the sentiments and passions of lowly and rural life. In Dumfries-shire he became acquainted with Mr Allan Cunningham, at that time a common stone-mason, and certainly one of the most original poets Scotland has produced, who communicated to him a vast quantity of most amusing and interesting information concerning the manners and customs of the people of Nithsdale and Galloway. Much of this is to be found in the appendix to this volume. That appendix is ostensibly written by Mr Cromek, and perhaps a few sentences and paragraphs, here and there, are from his pen; but no person of ordinary penetration can for a moment doubt, that as a whole it was fairly composed and written out by the hand of Allan Cunningham. Every thing is treated of in the familiar and earnest style of a man speaking of what he has known from his youth upwards, and of what has influenced and even formed the happiness of his life. Allusions are made to persons deceased and things gone by, in the affectionate and even passionate language of a heart that had loved or enjoyed them; and every now and then bright and beaming images rise up of the past, which betray the secret of the author's character and situation, and prove, that none but a Scotchman could have so thought, and felt, and written of Scotland. We refer, for proofs of this, such of our readers as are fortunate enough to possess the volume, (for we believe it is now out of print), to the articles in the appendix, "Scottish Games," "Taking the Beuk" "Character of the Scottish Lowland Fairies," and the "Account of Billy Blin, the Scotch Brownie." But the best of the poetry, too, belongs to Allan Cunningham. No doubt, there are still floating all over Scotland, on the unextinguishable breath of popular tradition, many songs, and snatches of songs, that have never found their way into any collection. We have ourselves heard sung in the country many such fragments. But they are, though often beautiful, all corrupt and imperfect Remains of Nithsdale and Galloway Song: with Historical and Traditional Notices, relative to the Manners and Customs of the Peasantry. Now first collected by R. H. Cromek, F. A. S. Edinburgh. 8vo. T. Cadell, and W. Davies, London, 1810. the faded ghosts of what they must once have been, and breathing, as it were, the faint and obsolete language of the dead. The finest of our traditional strains, both of music and of poetry, have by this time been gathered together into a safer sanctuary -and we do not believe, that much that is valuable remains to be gleaned among the vallies of humble life. If we are justified in so thinking, can the most credulous person believe, that Mr Cromek, an Englishman, an utter stranger in Scotland, should have been able, during a few days walk through Nithsdale and Galloway, to collect, not a few broken fragments of poetry only, but a number of finished and perfect poems, of whose existence none of the inquisitive literary men or women of Scotland had ever before heard? And that, too, in the very country which Robert Burns had beaten to its every bush-and in every hamlet, of which he sat, both by night and by day, delighting the humble inmates by his own matchless genius, and eager to grasp, with passionate love and delight, every syllable of song that the inspired peasants of old might have breathed, and that time might still have spared to gladden the fireside of the cottager? Could love-songs, full of ardent passion, and melting tenderness, and pastoral imagery, and domestic joy, and national exultation, and religious reverence, have been recited and sung for ages by the Dumfries-shire peasantry, familiar as household words, and yet have never reached that ear which was so keenly alive to all the melodies of his native land? But independently of all this, the poems speak for themselves, and for Allan Cunningham. Some verses there are in the volume unquestionably of an old date, (and these, by the way, are not Nithsdale and Galloway songs at all,) but the compositions, which we intend to quote, are either entirely modern, or entitled to be called ancient, merely because they occasionally include some fine old stanza, or are, with exquisite feeling, filled with those thoughts and images which were the delight of the simple bards of other days. We meet with songs said to have been penned and sung by the austere and persecuted covenanters, full of melody, simplicity, elegance, and grace. No doubt such men had many of them, gentle hearts --and the love of their wives and their fathers and their children must have often gushed up from that profound depth of soul, over whose agitated surface fell so black and fiercely the storms and troubles of life. But the following beautiful song, though boldly said to have been written during the days of the covenant, and afterwards to have been sung at trystes and merry-meetings by an old greyheaded patriarch, with whom have perished many lays of the times which were, cannot, as we feel, be thought of in any other light but an exquisite imitation. Thou hast sworn by thy God, my Jeanie. By a' the stars sown thick owre heaven, Then foul fa' the hands that wad loose sic bands, An' the heart that wad part sic love; Her white arm wad be a pillow for me, An' sweetly I'd sleep an' soun'. God, Come here and kneel wi' me, The morn is fu' o' the presence o' my An' I canna pray but thee. The morn-wind is sweet 'mang the beds o' new flowers, The wee birds sing kindlie an' hie, Our gude-man leans owre his Kale-yard dyke, The Beuk maun be taen whan the carle An' a blythe auld body is he. comes hame, Wi' the holie psalmodie, The following elegiac lines, which, in a note, are said to have been written about the time of the Reformation, on a daughter of the Laird Maxwell of Cowhill, called by the peasantry, the Lily of Nithsdale, are perfectly beautiful. They are said to have been given to the editor by the same young country girl who favoured him with the preceding song, a maiden who seems to have been singularly fortunate in recollecting what all the rest of her country women had forgotten. But we know them to be Allan Cunningham's-written, too, at a time. when he was in the very humblest situation of life; and we do not think that either Bowles, or Campbell, or Wordsworth, has written any thing more wildly, and naturally, and solemnly pathetic. She's gane to dwall in heaven, my lassie, O what'l she do in heaven, my lassie ? She'll mix her ain thoughts wi' angel's sangs, An' make them mair meet for heaven. She was beloved by a', my lassie, She was beloved by a'; But an' angel fell in luve wi' her, Low there thou lies my lassie, Low there thou lies; A bonnier form ne'er went to the yird, Fu' soon I'll follow thee, my lassie, Thou left me nought to covet ahin,' But took gudeness sel' wi' thee. I looked on thy death-cold face, my lassie, I looked on thy death-shut eye, my lassie, Thy lips were ruddie and calm, my lassie, An' why should I stay behin'! There is a little fragment, of only three stanzas, which we also believe to be modern-part of a song supposed to be sung by a deserted maiden, and which, whether owing to the singularly plaintive flow of the versification, or to the extreme simplicity of the mourner's grief, which connects itself with the forms and seasons of external nature, and with the first and most. awful of all human feelings, paternal and filial love, are to us beyond measure affecting. Gane were but the winter cauld, And gane were but the snaw, I could sleep in the wild woods, Whare primroses blaw. Cauld's the snaw at my head, And cauld at my feet, And the finger o' death's at my een, Let nane tell my father, Or my mither sae dear, I'll meet them baith in heaven, At the spring o' the year. The two first poems which we have mek (so he tells us) by Miss Jean now quoted, were given to Mr CroWalker, who also gave him, as a traditional poem, the " Mermaid," a most beautiful ballad, which we shall quote by and by, and which is now an avowed composition of Allan Cunningham. We are greatly obliged to this amiable young lady, for bringing to light so much fine old poetry; but she cannot but know, that she first heard them all from the lips of that ingenious poet. In that part of this volume containing the Jacobite songs, we also trace the pen of Allan Cunningham. Who but himself and Miss Jean Walker ever heard the following ballad previously to the publication of these reliques? The sun rises bright in France, And fair sits he; But he has tint the blythe blink he had In my ain countrie. It's nae my ain ruin That weets ay my ee, But the dear Marie I left a-hin', Wi' sweet bairnies three. Fu' bonnolie lowed my ain hearth, O I am leal to high heaven, An' it i'll be leal to me, Frae my ain countrie! The "Waes o' Scotland" is also modern. This we have always suspected, and we have occasion to know, that Mr Scott has ever been of the same opinion: the Ettrick Shepherd, too, we see in a note to the first volume of his collection of Jacobite songs, just published, smiles at the idea of this being a real Jacobite ballad, and pays a kind and generous compli ment to its real author, whom he calls "the ingenious Allan Cunningham, one of the brightest poetical geniuses that ever Scotland bred, yet who in that light has been utterly neglected." Whan I left thee, bonnie Scotland, Thou wert fair to see, Whan she maun wedded be; Upon a May-morn fair, A bonnie lass sat at our town-en', "O hey! O hey!" sung the bonnie lass, 66 O hey! an' wae's me! There's joy to the Whigs, an' land to the Whigs, An' nocht but wae to me! "O hey! O hey!" sung the bonnie lass, "O hey! an' wae's me! There's siccan sorrow in Scotland, As een did never see. "O hey! O hey for my father auld! O hey! for my mither dear! An' my heart will burst for the bonnie lad Wha left me lanesome here!" I had na gane in my ain Scotland Mae miles than twa or three Coming up the gate to me. "A traitor's head!" and "a traitor's head!" Loud bawled a bluidy lown: But I drew frae the sheath my glaive o' wier, I hied me hame to my father's ha', Wi' the death-tear in her ee. O wha has wrocht this bluidy wark? I'd wash his sark in his ain heart blude, I hadna gane frae my ain dear hame But I threw him frae his weir-saddle But by his thie was my father's glaive, An' buckled roun' him was the broider'd belt Whilk my mither's hands did weave, I wander a' night 'mang the lands I own'd, I maun wander through my dear Scotland, There is in this volume, a ballad called "The Lord's Marie," which we also venture to ascribe almost wholly to Allan Cunningham. It is founded on a traditional story of a daughter of the Lord Maxwell of Nithsdale, accompanying in disguise a peasant to a rustic dancing-tryste. There is nothing more interesting, or better illustrative of ancient manners, in the Minstrelsy of the Border. The Lord's Marie has kepp'd her locks An' she has put on her net-silk hose, O saft, saft fell the dew on her locks, Ae sweet drap fell on her strawberrie lip, O whare gat ye that leal maiden, O whare got ye that bonnie, bonnie lass, O here's ae drap o' the damask wine;- Fu' white, white was her bonnie neck, But ruddie, ruddie grew her hawse, While she supp'd the bluid-red wine. Play me up Sweet Marie,' I cry'd, But the fiddler play'd ay Struntum, strum, 'Here's thy kin' health i'the ruddie red wine, For never a pair o' een before Fell like the morning light. An' O! her hinney breath left her locks While luve laugh'd in her bonnie blue ee, Loose hings yere broider'd gowd garter, She, trembling, lift her silky hand To her red, red flushing cheek. Ye've drapp'd, ye've drapp'd yere broach o' gowd, The tears o'erbrimm'd her bonnie blue ee, 'O maid, unbar the siller belt, An' take this kiss, thou peasant youth, An' tak,' quo' she, this kame o' gowd, For meikie my heart forbodes to me, I never maun meet ye mair!' The next song we shall quote is prefaced by this somewhat suspicious looking notice. "A fairer specimen of romantic Scottish love than is contained in this song, is rarely to be met with. It was first introduced to Nithsdale and Galloway about thirty years ago, by a lady whose mind was deranged. She wandered from place to place, followed by some tamed sheep. The old people describe her as an amiable and mild creature. She would lie all night under the shade of some particular tree, with her sheep around her. They were as the ewe-lamb in the scripture parable;-they lay in her bosom, ate of her bread, drank of her cup, and were unto her as daughters. Thus she wandered through part of England, and the low part of Scotland; esteemed, respected, pitied, and wept for by all! She was wont to sing this song unmoved, until she came to the last verse, and then she burst into tears. The old tree, under which she sat with her sheep, is now cut down. The schoolboys always paid a sort of religious respect to it. It never was the 6 dools,' nor the but;' nor were the outs and ins,' nor the hard-fought game of England and Scotland,' ever played about it: but there, on fine Sabbath evenings, the old women sat down and read their bibles; the young men and maidens learned their |