The poor poet, with that inoffensive gentleness of manners which was his peculiar characteristic, replied, that he hoped God and his reverence would forgive his seeming profanity of that sacred day,

as he had no dinner to eat, but what lay at the bottom of that pool!" This, Mr. Woods, the player, who knew Cunningham well, and esteemed him much, assured me was true.*

* The Editor, on his way to Edinburgh, had an interview with the celebrated Bewick, of Newcastle, who favoured him with the annexed interesting Portrait of Cunningham, which he drew two days before the Poet's death.

Through life Bewick has possessed a vivid recollection of Character, and to this happy faculty we owe some of the most vigorous productions of his pencil. The Poems of Cunningham were the delight of his youthful mind; so much so, that he emphatically declared he used to read his verses with the same enthusiasm as others read their prayer-books and bibles.-He walked after the Poet in the streets of Newcastle, stopped, loitered behind, repassed him; and in this manner, unobserved by the poor dying Bard, obtained the sketch which the Editor now presents to the public. The little handkerchief, or rather the remains of a handkerchief, in his hand, contained a herring, and some other small matter of food.

Cunningham had little consciousness of his own merit as a Poet, and seldom wrote but when urged by necessity. His highest ambition was to be considered a great Actor, for which he had no requisite either of person or talents. When in Mr. Bates's company of comedians, he had generally a benefit night

at

The silver moon's enamour'd beam,
Steals softly through the night,
To wanton with the winding stream,
And kiss reflected light.

To beds of state go balmy sleep,

('Tis where you've seldom been,) May's vigil while the shepherds keep With Kate of Aberdeen!

at North Shields, and being much beloved, numbers flocked to it from Newcastle. He would declare afterwards to his friends, with his usual naiveté, that so crowded a house was drawn by his theatrical eminence!

An occurrence not generally known gave the first shock to this good man's heart. His volume of Poems was dedicated to Garrick, whom in his admiration of theatrical talent he would naturally esteem the first man that ever existed. He trudged up to the metropolis to present his volume to this celebrated character. He saw him; and, according to his own phrase, he was treated by him in the most humiliating and scurvy manner imaginable. Garrick assumed a cold and stately air; insulted Cunningham by behaving to him as to a common beggar, and gave him a couple of guineas, accompanied with this speech:-" PLAYERS, Sir, as well as POETS, are always poor."

The blow was too severe for the Poet. He was so confused at the time, that he had not the use of his faculties, and indeed never recollected that he ought to have spurned the offer with contempt, till his best friend, Mrs. Slack, of Newcastle, remind ed him of it by giving him a sound box on the ear, when he returned

Upon the green the virgins wait,
In rosy chaplets gay,

"Till morn unbar her golden gate,
And give the promis'd May.
Methinks I hear the maids declare
The promis'd May, when seen,
Not half so fragrant, half so fair,
As Kate of Aberdeen!

Strike up the tabor's boldest notes,
We'll rouse the nodding grove;

The nested birds shall raise their throats,
And hail the maid I love :

turned once more beneath her sheltering roof, and related his sad story.

The repulse, however, preyed deeply on his spirits, and drove him to that fatal resource of disappointment,—dram drinking.

When he had money he gave it away to people in distress, leaving himself pennyless. His kind protectress, Mrs. Slack, used to empty his pockets before he went out, of the little that was in them, as one takes halfpence from a school-boy to prevent him from purchasing improper trash: How illustrative of the childish simplicity of his character!

From his emaciated appearance in this portrait, he might be supposed very aged; yet from the inscription on his tomb-stone in the churchyard of St. John's, at Newcastle, it appears he was only 44 years old when he died.

These particulars were collected from Mrs. Slack's daughter, and Mr. Thomas Bewick, both of Newcastle.

And see-the matin lark mistakes,
He quits the tufted green;

Fond bird! 'tis not the morning breaks,

"Tis Kate of Aberdeen!

Now lightsome o'er the level mead,
Where midnight fairies rove,
Like them, the jocund dance we'll lead,
Or tune the reed to love:

For see the rosy May draws nigh,
She claims a virgin queen;
And hark, the happy shepherds cry,
""Tis Kate of Aberdeen!"

THE LASS OF PATIE'S MILL.

IN Sinclair's Statistical Account of Scotland, this song is localized (a verb I must use for want of another to express my idea) somewhere in the North of Scotland, and likewise is claimed by Ayrshire.The following anecdote I had from the present Sir William Cunningham, of Robertland, who had it from the last John, Earl of Loudon.-The then Earl of Loudon, father to Earl John, before mentioned, had Ramsay at Loudon, and one day walk

ing together by the banks of Irvine water, near New-Mills, at a place yet called Patie's Mill, they were struck with the appearance of a beautiful country girl. His lordship observed, that she would be a fine theme for a song.-Allan lagged behind in returning to Loudon Castle, and at dinner produced this identical song.