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Psalms, and then went home full of the meek and lowly composure of religion." There's kames o' hinney 'tween my luve's lips,

An' gowd amang her hair,

Her breasts are lapt in a holie veil,

Nae mortal een keek there.

What lips dare kiss, or what hand dare touch,
Or what arm o' luve dare span
The hinney lips, the creamy loof,

Or the waist o' Ladie Ann.

She kisses the lips o' her bonnie red rose
Wat wi' the blobs o' dew;

But nae gentle lip, nor simple lip,

Maun touch her Ladie mou.

But a broider'd belt wi' a buckle o' gowd,
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' gowd,

Like my luve's broider'd cap.
An' on the mantle which my luve wears
Are monie a gowden drap.
Her bonnie eebree's a holie arch

Cast by no earthlie han',

An' the breath o' God'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 wee, wee fee,
Wi' fatherless bairnies twa:
My Ladie comes, my Ladie gaes
Wi' a fou and kindly han',

O the blessing o' God maun mix wi' my luve,

An' fa' on' Ladie Ann!

There is, we think, much true love in the following stanzas,-warmth, tenderness, and delicacy.

Cauld winter is awa, my luve,

And spring is in her prime,
The breath o' God stirs a' to life,
The grasshoppers to chime :
The birds canna contain themsels
Upon the sprouting tree,
But loudlie, loudlie sing o' luve,
A theme which please themsels
The blackbird is a pawkie loun,
An' kens the gate o' luve;
Fu' weel the sleeket mavis kens
The melting lilt maun muve.
The gowdspink woos in gentle note,
And ever singeth he,

Come here, come here, my spousal dame,'

A theme which pleaseth me.

What says the sangster Rose-linnet?
His breast is beating high,

Come here, come here, my ruddie mate, The gate o' luve to try.'

The lav'roc calls his freckled mate,

Frae near the sun's ee-bree,

Come make on the knowe our nest of luve,'

A theme which pleaseth me.

The hares hae brought forth twins, my love, Sae has the cushat doo;

The raven croaks a safter way,

His sootie love to woo:"

And nought but luve, luve breathes around,
Frae hedge, frae field, an' tree,
Soft whispering luve to Jeanie's heart,
A theme which pleaseth me.

O Lassie, is thy heart mair hard
Than mavis frae the bough;
Say maun the hale, creation wed,
And Jean remain to woo?
Say has the holie lowe o' luve

Ne'er lighten'd in your ee? O, if thou canst na feel for pain, Thou art nae theme for me? Burns, though the best song-writer in the world, has not, in our opinion, produced six songs equal to Allan Cunningham's "Lass of Preston Mill.” Why does it not find its way into musical collections?

The lark had left the evening cloud,

The dew fell saft, the wind was lowne,
Its gentle breath amang the flowers
Scarce stirred the thistle's tap of down;
The dappled swallow left the pool,

The stars were blinking o'er the hill;
As I met amang the hawthorns green,
The lovely lass o' Preston Mill.
Her naked feet amang the grass,

Seemed like twa dew-gemmed lilies fair;
Her brows shone comely 'mang her locks,
Black curling owre her shouthers bare:
Her cheeks were rich wi' bloomy youth;
Her lips were like a honey well,

And heaven seemed looking through her een,
The lovely lass o' Preston Mill.

Quo' I, fair lass, will ye gang wi' me,
Where black cocks craw, and plovers cry?
Sax hills are wooly wi' my sheep,

Sax vales are lowing wi' my kye:

I hae looked lang for a weel-faur'd lass,
By Nithsdale's howmes an' monie a hill ;'-
She hung her head like a dew-bent rose,
The lovely lass o' Preston Mill.

Quo' I, sweet maiden, look nae down,
But gie's a kiss, and gae wi' me:'

A lovelier face, O! never looked up,
And the tears were drapping frae her ee:
'I hae a lad, wha's far awa,

That weel could win a woman's will;
My heart's already fu' o' love,'

Quo' the lovely lass o' Preston Mill.

O wha is he wha could leave sic a lass,
To seek for love in a far countrie?'-
Her tears drapped down like simmer dew,
I fain wad hae kissed them frae her ee.
I took but ane o' her comelic cheek;
For pity's sake, kind Sir, be still!

My heart is fu' o' ither love,'

Quo' the lovely lass o' Preston Mill.

She streeked to heaven her twa white hands,

And lifted up her watry ee;

Sae lang's my heart kens ought o' God,

Or light is gladsome to my ee ;

While woods grow green, and burns rin clear,

Till my last drap o' blood be still,

My heart sall haud nae ither love,'

Quo' the lovely lass o' Preston Mill.

There's comelie maids on Dee's wild banks,
And Nith's romantic vale is fu';

By lanely 'Clouden's hermit stream,
Dwalls monie a gentle dame, I trow!
O, they are lights of a bonnie kind,
As ever shone on vale or hill;
But there's a light puts them a' out,
The lovely lass o' Preston Mill.

We finish our quotations from this somewhat mysterious volume with the longest poem in it; and as there is no doubt whatever, that it is by Allan Cunningham, our readers will, from its perusal, judge for themselves of his powers as a poet.

There's a maid has sat o' the green merse side
Thae ten lang years and mair;

An' every first night o' the new moon

She kames her yellow hair.

An' ay while she sheds the yellow burning gowd,
Fu' sweet she sings and hie,

Till the fairest bird that wooes the green wood,
Is charmed wi' her melodie.

But whae'er listens to that sweet sang,
Or gangs the fair dame te;
Ne'er hears the sang o' the lark again,
Nor waukens an earthlie ee.

It fell in about the sweet simmer month,
I' the first come o' the moon,

That she sat o' the tap of a sea-weed rock,
A-kaming her silk-locks down.

Her kame was o' the whitely pearl,
Her hand like new-won milk;

Her breasts were o' the snawy curd,
In a net o' sea-green silk.

She kamed her locks owre her white shoulders,

A fleece baith bonny and lang;

An' ilka ringlet she shed frae her brows,
She raised a lightsome sang.

I' the very first liit o' that sweet sang,
The birds forhood their young;

And' they flew i' the gate o' the gray howlet,
To listen the sweet maiden.

I' the second lilt o' that sweet sang,
O sweetness it was sae fu';

The tod lap up owre our fauld-dyke,
And dighted his red-wat mou.

I' the very third lilt o' that sweet sang,
Red lowed the new woke moon;

The stars drapped blude on the yellow gowan tap,
Sax miles round that maiden.

I haedwalt on the Nith,' quo' the young Cowehill,
These twenty years an' three,

But the sweetest sang e'er brake frae a lip,
Comes through the greenwood to me.

O is it a voice frae twa earthlie lips,
Whirk makes sic melodie?

It wad wyle the lark frae the morning lift,
And weel may it wyle me!'

I dreamed a dreary thing, master,
Whilk I am rad ye rede;

I dreamed ye kissed a pair o' sweet lips,
That drapped o' red heart's-blude.'
'Come haud my steed, ye little foot-page,
Shod wi' the red gowd roun';

Till I kiss the lips whilk sing sae sweet,
An' lightlie lap he down.

'Kiss nae the singer's lips, master,
Kiss nae the singer's chin;

Touch nae her hand,' quo' the little foot-page, 'If skaithless hame ye'd win.

O wha will sit on yere toom saddle,

O wha will bruik yere gluve;

An' wha will fauld yere erled bride,

I' the kindlie clasps o' luve?'

He took aff his hat, a' gowd i' the rim,
Knot wi' a siller ban';

He seemed a' in lowe wi' his gowd raiment,
As thro' the greenwood he ran.

The simmer-dew fa's saft, fair maid,
Aneath the siller moon:

But eerie is thy seat i' the rock,
Washed wi' the white sea faem.

Come wash me wi' thy lilie white hand,
Below and 'boon the knee:

An' I'll kame thae links o' yellow burning gowd,
Aboon thy bonnie blue ee.

How rosie are thy parting lips,
How lilie-white thy skin.
An' weel I wat thae kissing een
Wad tempt a saint to sin.'

"Tak aff thae bars an' bobs o' gowd,
Wi' thy gared doublet fine;
An' thraw me aff thy green mantle,
Leafed wi' the siller twine.

An' a' in courtesie fair knight,

A maiden's mind to win,
The gowd lacings o' thy green weeds,
Wad harm her lilie skin.'

Syne coost he aff his green mantle,
Hemm'd wi' the red gowd roun';
His costly doublet coost he aff,
Wi' red gowd flow'red down.

'Now ye maun kame my yellow hair,
Down wi' my pearlie kame;
Then rowe me in thy green mantle,
An' take me maiden hame.'

But come first tauk me 'neath the chin,
An' syne come kiss my cheek;

An' spread my hanks o' wat'ry hair,
I' the new-moon beam to dreep.'
Sae first he kiss'd her dimpled chin,
Syne kissed her rosie cheek;
An' lang he woo'd her willin' lips,
Like hether-hinnie sweet!

O! if ye'll come to the bonnie Cowehill,
'Mang primrose banks to woo,

I'll wash thee ilk day i'the new milked milk,
An' bind wi' gowd yere brow.

An' a' for a drink o' the clear water

Ye'se hae the rosie wine,

An' a' for the water white lilie,

Ye'se hae these arms o' mine.'

But what 'll she say, yere bonnie young bride Busked wi' the siller fine;

Whan the rich kisses ye kept for her lips,

Are left wi' vows on mine?'

He took his lips frae her red-rose meu',
His arm frae her waist sae sma';
'Sweet maiden, I'm in brydal speed.

It's time I were awa.'

"O gie me a token o'luve sweet May,

A leal luve token true;'

She crapped a lock o' yellow gowden hair,
An' knotted it roun' his brow.

"O tie nae it sae strait, sweet May,
But wi' love's rose-knot kynde;
My head is fu' o' burning pain,
O saft ye maun it bynde.'

His skin turned a' o' the red-rose hue,
Wi' draps o' bludie sweat;

An' he laid his head 'mang the water lilies,
'Sweet maiden, I maun sleep.

She tyed ae link o' her wat yellow hair,
Aboon his burning bree;

Among his curling haffet locks

She knotted knurles three.

She weaved owre his brow the white lilie,
Wi' witch-knots mae than nine;

'Gif ye were seven times bride-groom owre,
This night ye shall be mine.'

O twice he turned his sinking head,
An' twice he lifted his ee;

O twice he sought to lift the links
Were knotted owre his bree.

'Arise, sweet knight, yere young bride waits, An' doubts her ale will sowre;

An' wistly looks at the lily white sheets,
Down spread in ladie-bowre.'

An' she has prenned the broidered silk,
About her white hause bane;

Her princely petticoat is on,
Wi' gowd can stan' its lane.

He faintlie, slowlie, turn'd his cheek,
And faintly lift his ee,

And he strave to lowse the witching bands
Aboon his burning bree.

Then took she up his green mantle

Of lowing gowd the hem;

Then took she up his silken cap,

Rich wi' a siller stem;

An' she threw them wi' her lilie hand

Amang the white sea faem.

She took the bride ring frac his finger
An' threw it in the sea:

That hand shall mense nae ither ring
But wi' the will o' me.'
She faulded him i' her lilie arms,
An' left her pearlie kame;
His fleecy locks trailed owre the sand
As she took the white sea-faem.
First raise the star out owre the hill,
And niest the lovelier moon:
While the beauteous bride o' Gallowa
Looked for her blythe bride-groom.

Lythlie she sang while the new-moon raise,
Blythe as a young bride May,

When the new-moon lights her lamp o' luve,
An' blinks the bryde away.

Nithsdale, thou art a gay garden,
Wi' monie a winsome flower;
But the princeliest rose o' that garden
Maun blossom in my bower.

An' I will kepp the drapping dew
Frae my red rose's tap,

An' the balmy blobs o' ilka leaf,
I'll kepp them drap by drap.

An' I will wash thy white bosom
A' wi' this heavenly sap.'

An' ay she sewed her silken snood,
An' sung a brydal sang;
But aft the tears drapt frae her ee,
Afore the gray morn cam.

The sun lowed ruddie 'mang the dew,
Sae thick on bank and tree;
The plow-boy whistled at his darg,
The milk-may answered hie;
But the lovely bride o' Gallowa'

Sat wi' a wat-shod ee.

Ilk breath o' wind 'mang the forest leaves
She heard the bridegroom's tongue,
And she heard the brydal-coming lilt
In every bird which sung.

She sat high on the tap towre stane,
Nae waiting May was there;
She lowsed the gowd busk frae her breast,
The kame frae 'mang her hair;

She wiped the tear-blobs frae her ee,
And looked lang and sair!

First sang to her the blythe wee bird,
Frae aff the hawthorn green;

Loose out the love curls frae yere hair,
Ye plaited sae weel yestreen.'

An' the spreckled woodlark frae 'mang the clouds
O' heaven came singing down;

Tauk out the bride-knots frae yere hair
An' let thae lang locks down.'

'Come, byde wi' me, ye pair o' sweet birds,
Come down an' byde wi' me;

Ye sall peckle o' the bread an' drink o' the wine,
An' gowd yere cage sall be.'

She laid the bride-cake 'neath her head,

An' syne below her feet;

An' laid her down 'tween the lilie white sheets

An' soundlie did she sleep!

It was i' the mid-hour of the night,

Her siller-bell did ring;

An' soun't as if nae earthlie hand
Had pou'd the silken string.

There was a cheek touch'd that ladye's,
Cauld as the marble stane;

An' a hand cauld as the drifting snaw
Was laid on her breast-bane.

O cauld is thy hand, my dear Willie,
O cauld, cauld is thy cheek;
An' wring thae locks o' yellow hair,
Frae which the cauld draps dreep.
O seek anither bridegroom, Marie,
On thae bosom-faulds to sleep;
My bride is the yellow water lilie,
Its leaves my brydal sheet !'

We have seen what a great genius has lately been able to make of the Scottish character in those wonderful Prose Tales which have revealed to us secrets supposed to have been for ever buried in forgetfulness. Ten thousand themes

are yet left untouched to native poets-for, after all, Burns has drawn but few finished pictures, and was, for the most part, satisfied with general sketches and rapid outlines. It is not easy to imagine the existence of a more original poet than Burns, who shall also be moved by an equal sympathy with lowly life ;—but it is very easy to imagine the existence of a poet who shall possess a far deeper insight into the grandeur and pathos of that lowly life, who shall contemplate it with a more habitual reverence, and exhibit it in a nobler, yet perfectly natural, mould of poetry. With all our admiration of the genius both of the Ettrick Shepherd and of Allan Cunningham, we are not prepared to say that either of them is such a poet-but we have not the slightest doubt, that if either of them were to set himself seriously to the study of the character of the peasantry of Scotland, as a subject of poetry, he might produce something of deep and universal interest, and leave behind him an imperishable name.

THE CLYDESDALE YEOMAN'S RETURN.

An excellent new ballad to the tune of Grammachroe.

Written and Sung by DR SCOTT.

'Twas on a Wednesday evening, John Craig came darkling hame,
The bairns they a' were sleeping, but wakefu' was the dame,
Yet rose she not when John came in-a thought displeased was she,
That John so late, on market days, in coming home should be.
And 'tis, "Oh, John Craig, I wonder-what a decent man like you
Can find so late, in Glasgow town, on Wednesday for to do?"

"Gude words, gude wife," quoth Johnny, "I'm sure you cannot say
That black the white is o' my ee, since e'er our wedding-day-
What past before's as weel forgot, for your sake as for mine-
What signify late comings-home-that were sae lang sin' syne?
Come gie's a cupfu' of your best, and I'se tell you where I've been-
For I've been at the Meeting, and the Radicals I've seen.'

Vol. VI.

2$

And 'tis, "Oh, John Craig! wae woman, full surely ye'll make me,
If ye tak to these evil ways, like other lads I see-

An orra cup I might forgie-but oh ! the night is black,

That frae a weaver-meeting I see my man come back.

And 'tis, oh, John! think and ponder, for they're neer-do-weels, I trow,
And the day that ye gaed near them first, that day we all shall rue."

"Cheer up, gudewife, cheer up, Jean-what's all this fuss?" quoth John"Gude troth a little matter gars a woman to take on

It was but Charlie Howatt persuaded me to stay

To see the fun for once, and hear what the callants had to say

But 'tis true ye speak, they're neer-do-weels-they are a Godless crew,

And I'll gang back nae mair, Jean, for I've seen and heard enow."

And 'tis, "Oh, John Craig-blythe woman-me now your words have made”— And with that a rowth o' peats and sticks aboon the fire is laid

And the auld green bottle is brought furth, and John his quaigh runs o'er, Sae kind the mistress had not been this mony a night before!

"And 'tis-touch your cup, John Craig, my man-for a weary way ye've been, Now tell me all the fairlies-here's to you John," quo' Jean.

"A good ten thousand weavers and colliers from Tollcross,
Came marching down the Gallowgate in order firm and close,
In even file and order due, like soldiers did they come,
And their feet did beat, in union meet, to trumpet, fife, and drum.
And they had captains of their own, and banners red and blue,
That o'er their heads, with wicked words, and fearful symbols flew.
"They played the tune, whose echo brings to our ears delight-
They played God save the King, Jean, but I trow 'twas all in spite;
For I fear, had they their evil will, they would pull the old man down,
And place upon some rascal head old Scotia's golden crown.
But when I looked upon the loons, for feckless loons were they,
Thinks I, we'll have a tussel yet, ere ye shall have your way.
Now when they came into the field-the music it did cease,
And up a weaver mounted, that had better held his peace ;
For when I heard him raving against both Lord and King,
Thinks I, your throat deserveth no neckcloth, save a string.
And when against God's word and law with merry jibes he spoke,
Thinks I, the day will come yet, ye'll repent ye of your joke.

But the darkest sight of all I saw, was the women that were there,
For they all had knots of colours three, entwined among their hair;
And well I knew what meant the same, for knots like these were worn
When the French began to curse their king, and laugh their God to scorn;
When, to strumpets base, devoid of grace, the fools did bend their knees,
'Twas then three-coloured ribbons drove out the flower-de-lys.

"But, by God's grace, no such disgrace shall come upon our head,
Or stain our ancient Scutcheon's face-old Scotia's Lion Red;
For be the weavers what they will, we Country Lads are true,
And the hour they meet the country boys, that hour they'll dearly rue;
For our hearts are firm, our arms are strong, and bonny nags have we,
And we'll all go out with General Pye, and the upshot you shall see.'

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Nay, God preserve the King," quoth Jean, " and bless the Prince, his son, And send good trade to weaver lads, and this work will all be done;

For 'tis idle hand makes busy tongue, and troubles all the land
With noisy fools that prate of things they do not understand.
But if worse fall out, then up, my man-was never holier cause,

God's blessed word-King George's crown-and proud old Scotland's laws!”

THE WARDER.

No II.

"LET MINE ENEMY BE AS THE WICKED, AND HE THAT RISETH UP AGAINST ME AS THE UNRIGHTEOUS

WHEN we last addressed our readers on the state of Public Affairs, and on the symptoms of the diseases of the times, the country was looking forward with strong and high hopes which have not been disappointed-to the meeting of Parliament. All the lovers of freedom, order, and religion, and none but they can be lovers of the land in which all these Sanctities have so long dwelt inviolated, well knew, that when the Grand Council of the Nation assembled, the voice of Britain would be there lifted up in recognition and defence of those principles by which alone the glory of a great People can be upheld. That a black and evil spirit had been too long brewing among the dregs of society, and that that spirit had been stirred up, and fed, and strengthened by wicked men, who hoped to see it ere long burst out into conflagration, was, we may safely say, an almost universal belief; and the only difference of opinion among good and wise men was with regard to the greatness and the proximity of the danger. When the character of a people seems to be not only shaken and disturbed, but vitiated and poisoned,-when it is no longer mere discontent, or disaffection to government that is heard murmuring throughout the lower ranks of life-but a bold and fierce and reckless spirit of impiety and irreligion, it is the bounden duty of all who are free from that malignant disease, and resolved to arrest its progress, to become Alarmists. There is no reproach, but true praise in the epithet, when bestowed not on mere sticklers for men and measures—but on them who know, from the melancholy history ofhuman nature, how rapid and deadly is the contagion of infidelity-how fearful its ravages when it is spread among the poor-how difficult the cure, but how easy the prevention. There is something cowardly in being prone to fear even the most angry and threatening discontent of the people-more especially in times of distress and privation; and there is no such proneness

JOB XXVII. 7.

now visible in the character of British statesmen. But not to fear, or at least not to prepare for resistance, when the object threatened or assailed is no other than the Religion of our country, would betoken a shocking insensibility to the blessings which it bestows, and a shocking ingratitude to the God by whom it was revealed.

It is not to be wondered at, therefore, that almost all persons of any degree of knowledge and education, have expressed alarm for their country, and, along with that alarm, a determination to guard its threatened blessings. The language of impiety has come upon their ears, not from the dark dens alone of our crowded cities, but even from the hamlet and the village that once stood in the peacefulness of nature, like so many little worlds, happy in the simplicity of their manners, the blamelessness of their morals, and the confidence of their faith. Accustomed as they had been to look with delight, and awe, and reverence, on all those forms and services of religion by which its Spirit is kept alive in men's hearts, and which have been created by the devout aspirations of human nature seeking alliance with Higher Power,the most ordinary men were startled and confounded to hear all religious establishments with the foulest execrations threatened and assailed, and that Book from which all truth and knowledge has spread over the world, daily and weekly exposed, beneath the skies of Britain, to the most hideous profanation. The danger has not struck only the clear-sighted and the high-souled-but it has forced itself upon the thoughts of men of every character and condition; and the humblest and lowliest Christian has looked forth with sorrow from the quiet homestead of his own inoffensive and retired life, on the loud and tumultuous spirit of infidelity abroad in the world.

But it is not to be thought that, in a country like Britain, where there is and so long has been so much talent, genius, philosophy, and erudition,

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