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

Nane ken o' me and Nanie 0;
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,

When 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

hat things should deck our humbis
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,

We stayed and wooed, and thought the Grave moments of sedater thought

moon

Set on the sea an hour too soon;

Or lingered 'mid the falling dew,

When Fortune frowns, nor lends our night

One gleam of her inconstant light;

When looks were fond and words were And Hope, that decks the peasant's

few.

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 (1812-1851), 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 Andia,' 1871; &c. 3. PETER CUNNINGHAM (1816-1869), many years clerk in the Audit Office; author of a 'Life of Nell Gywnn, 1852; Handbook of London,' 1849; and editor of Walpole's Letters, EL, vi-2

·

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), lieutenantcolonel in the Indian army, editor of the dramatic works of Marlowe, Massinger, and Ben Johnson, 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 i 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 suppose-

divided 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 bcame 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 thirtyeight. The taste, enthusiasm, and social qualities of Motherwell, rendered him very popular among his townsmen and friends. As an antiquary, he was shrewd, indefatigable, and truthful As a poet, he was happiest in 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.

The Midnight Wind.

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

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,

Gaping, ask me what lordships I owned at my birth
But the pale fools wax mute when I point with my sword

East, west, north, and south, shouting: There am I lord P
Wold and waste, town and tower, hill, valley, and stream,
Trembling, bow to my sway,

In the fierce battle fray,

When the star that rules fate is this falchion's red gleam.
MIGHT GIVER! I kiss thee!

I've heard great harps sounding in brave bower and hall;
I've drank the sweet music that bright lips let fall;
I've hunted in greenwood, and heard small birds sing;
But away with this idle and cold jargoning!

The music I love is the shout of the brave,

The yell of the dying,

The scream of the flying,

When this arm wields Death's sickle, and garners the grave
JOY GIVEB! I kiss thee.

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,
Aud 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 disposition, 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 hum

ble 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 extreme of the liberal class of opinions. He wrote as one of the three hundred might be supposed to have fought at Thermopyla, 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'.'

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 kuave 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.

'Anster Fair,'

In 1812 appeared a singular mock-heroic poem, 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