Page images
PDF
EPUB

gardener to a neighbouring proprietor, but shortly verance, undebased by any of the alloys by which afterwards became factor or land-steward to Mr the former is too often accompanied.

Miller of Dalswinton, Burns's landlord at Ellisland. Mr Cunningham had few advantages in his early days, unless it might be residence in a fine pastoral and romantic district, then consecrated by the presence and the genius of Burns. In his sixth year, in his father's cottage, he heard Burns read his poem of Tam o' Shanter

an event never to be forgotten! An elder brother having attained some eminence as a country builder, or mason, Allan was apprenticed to him, with a view to joining or following him in his trade; but he abandoned this, and in 1810 removed to London, and connected himself with the newspaper press. In 1814 he was engaged as clerk of the works, or superintendent, to the late Sir Francis Chantrey, the eminent sculptor, in whose establishment he continued till his death, October 29, 1842. Mr Cunningham was an indefatigable writer. He early contributed poetical effusions to the periodical works of the day, and nearly all the songs and fragments of verse in Cromek's Remains of Nithsdale and Galloway Song (1810) are of his composition, though published by Cromek as undoubted originals.

Some

of these are warlike and Jacobite, some amatory and devotional-the wild lyrical breathings of Covenanting love and piety among the hills-and all of them abounding in traits of Scottish rural life and primitive manners. As songs, they are not pitched in a key to be popular; but for natural grace and tenderness, and rich Doric simplicity and fervour, these pseudo-antique strains of Mr Cunningham are inimitable. In 1822 he published Sir Marmaduke Maxwell, a dramatic poem, founded on Border story and superstition, and afterwards two volumes of Traditional Tales. Three novels of a similar description, but more diffuse and improbable—namely, Paul Jones, Sir Michael Scott, and Lord Roldan-also proceeded from his fertile pen. In 1832 he appeared again as a poet, with a rustic epic,' in twelve parts, entitled The Maid of Elvar. He edited a collection of Scottish Songs, in four volumes, and an edition of Burns in eight volumes, to which he prefixed a Life of the poet, enriched with new anecdotes and information. To Murray's Family Library he contributed a series of Lives of Eminent British Painters, Sculptors, and Architects, which extended to six volumes, and proved the most popular of all his prose works. His last work -completed just two days before his death-was a Life of Sir David Wilkie, the distinguished artist, in three volumes. All these literary labours were produced in intervals from his stated avocations in Chantrey's studio, which most men would have considered ample employment. His taste and attainments in the fine arts were as remarkable a feature in his history as his early ballad strains; and the prose style of Mr Cunningham, when engaged on a congenial subject, was justly admired for its force and freedom. There was always a freshness and energy about the man and his writings that arrested the attention and excited the imagination, though his genius was but little under the control of a correct or critical judgment. Strong nationality and inextinguishable ardour formed conspicuous traits in his character; and altogether, the life of Mr Cunningham was a fine example of successful original talent and perse

The Young Maxwell.

'Where gang ye, thou silly auld carle?
And what do ye carry there?'
'I'm gaun to the hill, thou sodger man,
To shift my sheep their lair.'

Ae stride or twa took the silly auld carle,
An' a gude lang stride took he;
'I trow thou be a feck auld carle,
Will ye shew the way to me?'

And he has gane wi' the silly auld carle,
Adown by the greenwood side;
'Light down and gang, thou sodger man,
For here ye canna ride.'

He drew the reins o' his bonny gray steed,
An' lightly down he sprang:

Of the comeliest scarlet was his weir coat,
Whare the gowden tassels hang.

He has thrown aff his plaid, the silly auld carle,
An' his bonnet frae 'boon his bree;

An' wha was it but the young Maxwell!
An' his gude brown sword drew he!
'Thou killed my father, thou vile Southron!
An' ye killed my brethren three!
Whilk brake the heart o' my ae sister,
I loved as the light o' my ee!

'Draw out yer sword, thou vile Southron !
Red-wat wi' blude o' my kin!

That sword it crapped the bonniest flower
E'er lifted its head to the sun!

'There's ae sad stroke for my dear auld father! There's twa for my brethren three!

An' there's ane to thy heart for my ae sister,
Wham I loved as the light o' my ee.'

Hame, Hame, Hame.

Hame, hame, hame, hame fain wad I be,
Oh, hame, hame, hame, to my ain countrie!
When the flower is i' the bud, and the leaf is on the

tree,

The lark shall sing me hame in my ain countrie.
Hame, hame, hame, hame fain wad I be,
Oh, hame, hame, hame, to my ain countrie!
The green leaf o' loyalty's beginning for to fa',
The bonny white rose it is withering an' a';
But I'll water't wi' the blude of usurping tyrannie,
An' green it will grow in my ain countrie.
Hame, hame, hame, hame fain wad I be,
Oh, hame, hame, hame, to my ain countrie!
Oh, there's naught frae ruin my country can save,
But the keys o' kind heaven to open the grave,
That a' the noble martyrs wha died for loyaltie,
May rise again and fight for their ain countrie.
Hame, hame, hame, hame fain wad I be,
Oh, hame, hame, hame, to my ain countrie!

The great are now gane, a' wha ventured to save,
The new grass is springing on the tap o' their grave,
But the sun through the mirk blinks blithe in my ee,
'I'll shine on ye yet in yer ain countrie.'
Hame, hame, hame, hame fain wad I be,
Hame, hame, hame, to my ain countrie!

Fragment.

Gane were but the winter-cauld,

And gane were but the snaw, I could sleep in the wild woods, Where primroses blaw.

[blocks in formation]

She's Gane to Dwall in Heaven.

She's gane to dwall in heaven, my lassie,
She's gane to dwall in heaven;
Ye're ower pure, quo' the voice o' God,
For dwalling out o' heaven!

Oh, what 'll she do in heaven, my lassie?
Oh, what 'll she do in heaven?

She 'Il mix her ain thoughts wi' angels' 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 love wi' her,
An' took her frae us a'.

Low there thou lies, my lassie,
Low there thou lies;

A bonnier form ne'er went to the yird,
Nor frae it will arise!

Fu' soon I'll follow thee, my lassie,
Fu' soon I'll follow thee;

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-cold face;
Thou seemed a lily new cut i' the bud,
An' fading in its place.

I looked on thy death-shut eye, my lassie,
I looked on thy death-shut eye;
An' a lovelier light in the brow of heaven
Fell Time shall ne'er destroy.

Thy lips were ruddy and calm, my lassie,
Thy lips were ruddy and calm;"
But gane was the holy breath o' heaven
That sang the evening Psalm.

There's naught but dust now mine, lassie,
There's naught but dust now mine;
My saul's wi' thee i' the cauld grave,
An' why should I stay behin'!

A Wet Sheet and a Flowing Sea.

A wet sheet and a flowing sea,
A wind that follows fast,

And fills the white and rustling sail,
And bends the gallant mast;
And bends the gallant mast, my boys,
While, like the eagle free,
Away the good ship flies, and leaves
Old England on the lee.

'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-
The wind is piping loud;

66

The wind is piping loud, my boys, The lightning flashing freeWhile the hollow oak our palace is, Our heritage the sea.

My Nanie O.

Red rows the Nith 'tween bank and brae,
Mirk is the night and rainie O,

Though heaven and earth should mix in storm,

I'll gang and see my Nanie O;

My Nanie O, my Nanie O;

My kind and winsome Nanie O,
She holds my heart in love's dear bands,
And nane can do 't but Nanie O.

In preaching-time sae meek she stands,
Sae saintly and sae bonny O,

I cannot get ae glimpse of grace,
For thieving looks at Nanie O;
My Nanie O, my Nanie O;

The world's in love with Nanie O;
That heart is hardly worth the wear
That wadna love my Nanie O.

My breast can scarce contain my heart,
When dancing she moves finely O;

I guess what heaven is by her eyes,
They sparkle sae divinely O ;*
My Nanie O, my Nanie O;

The flower o' Nithsdale's Nanie O;
Love looks frae 'neath her lang brown hair,
And says, 'I dwell with Nanie O.'

Tell not, thou star at gray daylight,
O'er Tinwald-top so bonny O,

My footsteps 'mang the morning dew,
When coming frae my Nanie O;
My Nanie O, my Nanie O;

Nane ken o' me and Nanie O;
The stars and moon may tell 't aboon,
They winna wrang my Nanie O!

The Poet's Bridal-day Song.
Oh, my love's like the steadfast sun,
Or streams that deepen as they run;
Nor hoary hairs, nor forty years,
Nor moments between sighs and tears--
Nor nights of thought nor days of pain,
Nor dreams of glory dreamed in vain-
Nor mirth, nor sweetest song which flows
To sober joys and soften woes,
Can make my heart or fancy flee
One moment, my sweet wife, from thee.

Even while I muse, I see thee sit
In maiden bloom and matron wit-
Fair, gentle as when first I sued,
Ye seem, but of sedater mood;
Yet my heart leaps as fond for thee
As when, beneath Arbigland tree,

We stayed and wooed, and thought the moon

Set on the sea an hour too soon;

Or lingered 'mid the falling dew,

When looks were fond and words were few.

Though I see smiling at thy feet

Five sons and ae fair daughter sweet;

And time, and care, and birth-time woes

Have dimmed thine eye, and touched thy rose ;
To thee, and thoughts of thee, belong
All that charms me of tale or song;

In the Nanie O of Allan Ramsay, these four beautiful lines will be found, and there they might have remained, had their beauty not been impaired by the presence of Lais and Leda, Jove and Danaë.-Author's Note.

209

When words come down like dews unsought,
With gleams of deep enthusiast thought,
And Fancy in her heaven flies free-
They come, my love, they come from thee.

Oh, when more thought we gave of old
To silver than some give to gold;
'Twas sweet to sit and ponder o'er
What things should deck our humble bower!
'Twas sweet to pull in hope with thee
The golden fruit of Fortune's tree;
And sweeter still to choose and twine
A garland for these locks of thine-
A song-wreath which may grace my Jean,
While rivers flow and woods are green.

At times there come, as come there ought,
Grave moments of sedater thought-
When Fortune frowns, nor lends our night
One gleam of her inconstant light;
And Hope, that decks the peasant's bower,
Shines like the rainbow through the shower-
Oh, then I see, while seated nigh,

A mother's heart shine in thine eye;
And proud resolve and purpose meek,
Speak of thee more than words can speak:
I think the wedded wife of mine
The best of all that 's not divine.

The sons of Allan Cunningham have all distinguished themselves in literature, and furnish a remarkable instance of hereditary talent in one family. 1. Joseph DavEY CUNNINGHAM (18121851), late captain of Engineers in the Indian army, wrote a History of the Sikhs, an elaborate and able work, published in 1849, second edition in 1853. The author had lived among the Sikh people for eight years, and had been appointed to draw up Reports on the British connection generally with the Sutlej, and especially on the military resources of the Punjab. 2. ALEXANDER CUNNINGHAM (born in 1814), major-general of the Bengal Engineers, appointed Archæological Surveyor-general of India in 1870, Companion of the Star of India in 1871; author of The Bhilsa Topes or Buddhist Monuments of Central India, 1854 ; Arian Architecture, 1846; Ladak, Physical, Statistical, and Historical, 1854; The Ancient Geography of India, 1871; &c. 3. PETER CUNNINGHAM (1816-1869), many years clerk in the Audit Office; author of a Life of Nell Gwynn, 1852; Handbook of London, 1849; and editor of Walpole's Letters, Works of Drummond of Hawthornden, Goldsmith's Works, Johnson's Lives of the Poets, Campbell's Specimens of British Poets. Mr Cunningham contributed largely to literary journals. His Handbook of London is a work full of curious antiquarian and literary interest, illustrating the political and social history of the metropolis. 4. FRANCIS CUNNINGHAM (born in 1820), lieutenant-colonel in the Indian army, editor of the dramatic works of Marlowe, Massinger, and Ben Jonson, contributor to various literary periodicals, &c. Colonel Cunningham died Dec. 3, 1875.

WILLIAM MOTHERWELL.

WILLIAM MOTHERWELL (1797-1835) was born in Glasgow, but, after his eleventh year, was brought up under the care of an uncle in Paisley. At the age of twenty-one, he was appointed deputy to the sheriff-clerk at that town. He early evinced a love of poetry, and in 1819 became editor of a

miscellany entitled the Harp of Renfrewshire. A taste for antiquarian research

Not harsh and crabbed, as dull fools supposedivided with the muse the empire of Motherwell's genius, and he attained an unusually familiar acquaintance with the early history of our native literature, particularly in the department of traditionary poetry. The results of this erudition appeared in Minstrelsy Ancient and Modern (1827), a collection of Scottish ballads, prefaced by a historical introduction, which must be the basis of all future investigations into the subject. In the following year he became editor of a weekly journal in Paisley, and established a magazine there, to which he contributed some of his happiest poetical effusions. The talent and spirit which he evinced in his editorial duties, were the means of advancing him to the more important office of conducting the Glasgow Courier, in which situation he continued till his death. In 1832 he collected and published his Poems in one volume. He also joined with Hogg in editing the works of Burns; and he was collecting materials for a Life of Tannahill, when he was suddenly cut off by a fit of apoplexy at the early age of thirty-eight. The taste, enthusiasm, and social qualities of Motherwell, rendered him very popular among his townsmen and friends. and truthful. As a poet, he was happiest in As an antiquary, he was shrewd, indefatigable, pathetic or sentimental lyrics, though his own inclinations led him to prefer the chivalrous and martial style of the old minstrels.

From 'Jeanie Morrison.

I've wandered east, I've wandered west,
Through mony a weary way;
But never, never can forget

The love of life's young day!
The fire that's blawn on Beltane e'en,
May weel be black gin Yule;
But blacker fa' awaits the heart
Where first fond love grows cool.

O dear, dear Jeanie Morrison,

The thoughts o' bygane years Still fling their shadows ower my path, And blind my een wi' tears! They blind my een wi' saut, saut tears, And sair and sick I pine, As memory idly summons up

The blithe blinks o' langsyne. . .

Oh, mind ye, love, how aft we left
The deavin' dinsom toun,
To wander by the green burn-side,
And hear its water croon?
The simmer leaves hung ower our heads,
The flowers burst round our feet,
And in the gloamin o' the wood
The throssil whistled sweet.

The throssil whistled in the wood,
The burn sung to the trees,
And we with Nature's heart in tune,
Concerted harmonies;
And on the knowe aboon the burn,
For hours thegither sat
In the silentness o' joy, till baith
Wi' very gladness grat!

Aye, aye, dear Jeanie Morrison,

Tears trinkled doun your cheek,

Like dew-beads on a rose, yet nane
Had ony power to speak!
That was a time, a blessed time,

When hearts were fresh and young,
When freely gushed all feelings forth,
Unsyllabled-unsung!

I marvel, Jeanie Morrison,

Gin I hae been to thee

As closely twined wi' earliest thochts
As ye hae been to me?

Oh, tell me gin their music fills

Thine ear as it does mine;

Oh, say gin e'er your heart grows great Wi' dreamings o' langsyne?

I've wandered east, I've wandered west,
I've borne a weary lot;

But in my wanderings, far or near,
Ye never were forgot.

The fount that first burst frae this heart,
Still travels on its way;
And channels deeper as it rins,
The love o' life's young day.

O dear, dear Jeanie Morrison,

Since we were sindered young,

I've never seen your face, nor heard
The music o' your tongue;

But I could hug all wretchedness,
And happy could I dee,

Did I but ken your heart still dreamed
O' bygane days and me!

The Midnight Wind. Mournfully, oh, mournfully This midnight wind doth sigh, Like some sweet plaintive melody Of ages long gone by: It speaks a tale of other yearsOf hopes that bloomed to dieOf sunny smiles that set in tears, And loves that mouldering lie!

Mournfully, oh, mournfully

This midnight wind doth moan;
It stirs some chord of memory
In each dull heavy tone.

The voices of the much-loved dead
Seem floating thereupon-
All, all my fond heart cherished
Ere death had made it lone.

Mournfully, oh, mournfully

This midnight wind doth swell,
With its quaint pensive minstrelsy,
Hope's passionate farewell

To the dreamy joys of early years,
Ere yet grief's canker fell

On the heart's bloom-ay, well may tears
Start at that parting knell !

Sword Chant of Thorstein Raudi.

'Tis not the gray hawk's flight o'er mountain and mere; 'Tis not the fleet hound's course, tracking the deer; 'Tis not the light hoof-print of black steed or gray, Though sweltering it gallop a long summer's day, Which mete forth the lordships I challenge as mine: Ha ha! 'tis the good brand

[blocks in formation]

Far isles of the ocean thy lightning hath known,
And wide o'er the mainland thy horrors have shone.
Great sword of my father, stern joy of his hand!
Thou hast carved his name deep on the stranger's red
strand,

And won him the glory of undying song.
Keen cleaver of gay crests,
Sharp piercer of broad breasts,
Grim slayer of heroes, and scourge of the strong!
FAME GIVER! I kiss thee.

In a love more abiding than that the heart knows
For maiden more lovely than summer's first rose,
My heart's knit to thine, and lives but for thee;
In dreamings of gladness thou 'rt dancing with me,
Brave measures of madness, in some battle-field,
Where armour is ringing,

And noble blood springing,
And cloven, yawn helmet, stout hauberk, and shield.
DEATH GIVER! I kiss thee.

The smile of a maiden's eye soon may depart;
And light is the faith of fair woman's heart;
Changeful as light clouds, and wayward as wind,
Be the passions that govern weak woman's mind.
But thy metal 's as true as its polish is bright :
When ills wax in number,
Thy love will not slumber;
But, starlike, burns fiercer the darker the night.
HEART GLADDENER! I kiss thee.

My kindred have perished by war or by wave;
Now, childless and sireless, I long for the grave.
When the path of our glory is shadowed in death,
With me thou wilt slumber below the brown heath;
Thou wilt rest on my bosom, and with it decay;
While harps shall be ringing,
And Scalds shall be singing
The deeds we have done in our old fearless day.
SONG GIVER! I kiss thee.

ROBERT NICOLL.

ROBERT NICOLL (1814-1837) was a young man of high promise and amiable dispositions, who cultivated literature amidst many discouragements, and died early of consumption. He was a native of Auchtergaven, in Perthshire. After passing through a series of humble employments, during which he steadily cultivated his mind by reading and writing, he assumed the editorship of the Leeds Times, a weekly paper representing the Gaping, ask me what lordships I owned at my birth; extreme of the liberal class of opinions. He wrote

I clutch in my strong hand,

That can their broad marches and numbers define. LAND GIVER! I kiss thee.

Dull builders of houses, base tillers of earth,

as one of the three hundred might be supposed to have fought at Thermopylæ, animated by the pure love of his species, and zeal for what he thought the people's interests! The poet died deeply regretted by the numerous friends whom his talents and virtues had drawn around him. Nicoll's poems are short occasional pieces and songs-the latter much inferior to his serious poems, yet sometimes displaying happy rural imagery and fancy.

We are Brethren a'.

A happy bit hame this auld world would be,

If men, when they're here, could make shift to agree,
An' ilk said to his neighbour, in cottage an' ha,'
'Come, gie me your hand-we are brethren a'.'

I ken na why ane wi' anither should fight,
When to 'gree would make a'body cosie an' right,
When man meets wi' man, 'tis the best way ava,
To say: 'Gie me your hand-we are brethren a'.

[ocr errors]

My coat is a coarse ane, an' yours may be fine,
An' I maun drink water, while you may drink wine;
But we baith hae a leal heart, unspotted, to shaw :
Sae gie me your hand-we are brethren a'.

The knave ye would scorn, the unfaithfu' deride;
Ye would stand like a rock, wi' the truth on your side;
Sae would I, an' nought else would I value a straw ;
Then gie me your hand-we are brethren a'.

Ye would scorn to do fausely by woman or man;
I haud by the right aye, as weel as I can ;
We are ane in our joys, our affections, an' a';
Come, gie me your hand-we are brethren a'.
Your mother has lo'ed you as mithers can lo'e;
An' mine has done for me what mithers can do;
We are ane high an' laigh, an' we shouldna be twa:
Sae gie me your hand-we are brethren a'.

We love the same simmer day, sunny an' fair;
Hame! oh, how we love it, an' a' that are there!
Frae the pure air of heaven the same life we draw-
Come, gie me your hand-we are brethren a'

Frail shakin' auld Age will soon come o'er us baith,
An' creeping alang at his back will be Death;
Syne into the same mither-yird we will fa':
Come, gie me your hand-we are brethren a'.

WILLIAM TENNANT.

In 1812 appeared a singular mock-heroic poem, Anster Fair, written in the ottava rima stanza, since made so popular by Byron in his Beppo and Don Juan. The subject was the marriage of Maggie Lauder, the famous heroine of Scottish song; but the author wrote not for the multitude familiar with Maggie's rustic glory; he aimed at pleasing the admirers of that refined conventional poetry, half serious and sentimental, and half ludicrous and satirical, which was cultivated by Berni, Ariosto, and the lighter poets of Italy. There was classic imagery on familiar subjectssupernatural machinery (as in the Rape of the Lock) blended with the ordinary details of domestic life, and with lively and fanciful description. An exuberance of animal spirits seemed to carry the author over the most perilous ascents, and his wit and fancy were rarely at fault. Such a pleasant sparkling volume, in a style then unhackneyed, was sure of success. Anster Fair sold rapidly, and has since been often republished. The author,

212

WILLIAM TENNANT, was a native of Anstruther, or Anster, born in 1785, who, whilst filling the situation of clerk in a mercantile house, studied ancient and modern literature, and taught himself Hebrew. His attainments were rewarded in 1813 with an appointment as parish schoolmaster, to which was attached a salary of £40 per annum-a reward not unlike that conferred on Mr Abraham Adams in Joseph Andrews, who, being a scholar and man of virtue, was 'provided with a handsome income of £23 a year, which, however, he could not make a great figure with, because he lived in a dear country, and was a little encumbered with a wife and six children.' The author of Anster Fair was afterwards appointed to a more eligible and becoming situation-teacher of classical and oriental languages in Dollar Institution, and finally professor of oriental languages in St Mary's College, St Andrews. He died in 1848. Mr Tennant published some other poetical works -a tragedy on the story of Cardinal Beaton, and two poems, the Thane of Fife, and the Dinging Down of the Cathedral. It was said of Sir David Wilkie that he took most of the figures in his pictures from living characters in the county of Fife, familiar to him in his youth: it is more certain that Mr Tennant's poems are all on native subjects in the same district. Indeed, their strict locality has been against their popularity; but Anster Fair is the most diversified and richly humorous of them all, and besides being an animated, witty, and agreeable poem, it has the merit of being the first work of the kind in our language. The Monks and Giants of Frere, from which Byron avowedly drew his Beppo, did not appear till some time after Mr Tennant's poem. Of the higher and more poetical parts of Anster Fair, we subjoin a specimen :

Summer Morning.

I wish I had a cottage snug and neat
Upon the top of many-fountained Ide,
That I might thence, in holy fervour, greet

The bright-gowned Morning tripping up her side: And when the low Sun's glory-buskined feet

Walk on the blue wave of the Ægean tide, Oh, I would kneel me down, and worship there The God who garnished out a world so bright and fair!

The saffron-elbowed Morning up the slope

Of heaven canaries in her jewelled shoes, And throws o'er Kelly-law's sheep-nibbled top Her golden apron dripping kindly dews; And never, since she first began to hop

Up heaven's blue causeway, of her beams profuse, Shone there a dawn so glorious and so gay, As shines the merry dawn of Anster market-day.

Round through the vast circumference of sky

One speck of small cloud cannot eye behold, Save in the east some fleeces bright of dye, That stripe the hem of heaven with woolly gold, Whereon are happy angels wont to lie

Lolling, in amaranthine flowers enrolled, That they may spy the precious light of God, Flung from the blessed east o'er the fair Earth abroad.

The fair Earth laughs through all her boundless range,
Heaving her green hills high to greet the beam;
City and village, steeple, cot, and grange,
Gilt as with Nature's purest leaf-gold seem;

« PreviousContinue »