Volume Iii Part 2 (2/2)

Allan Cunningham ranks next to Hogg as a writer of Scottish song. He sung of the influences of beauty, and of the hills and vales of his own dear Scotland. His songs abound in warmth of expression, simplicity of sentiment, and luxuriousness of fancy. Of his skill as a Scottish poet, Hogg has thus testified his appreciation in the ”Queen's Wake”:--

”Of the old elm his harp was made, That bent o'er Cluden's loneliest shade; No gilded sculpture round her flamed, For his own hand that harp had framed, In stolen hours, when, labour done, He stray'd to view the parting sun.

That harp could make the matron stare, Bristle the peasant's h.o.a.ry hair, Make patriot b.r.e.a.s.t.s with ardour glow, And warrior pant to meet the foe; And long by Nith the maidens young Shall chant the strains their minstrel sung.

At ewe-bught, or at evening fold, When resting on the daisied wold, Combing their locks of waving gold, Oft the fair group, enrapt, shall name Their lost, their darling Cunninghame; His was a song beloved in youth, A tale of weir, a tale of truth.”

As a prose writer, Cunningham was believed by Southey to have the best style ever attained by any one born north of the Tweed, Hume only excepted. His moral qualities were well appreciated by Sir Walter Scott, who commonly spoke of him as ”Honest Allan.” His person was broad and powerful, and his countenance wore a fine intelligence.

[6] See vol. ii., p. 223.

[7] Besides Thomas and Allan, the other members of the family afforded evidence of talent. James, the eldest son, with a limited education, was intimately familiar with general literature, and occasionally contributed to the periodicals. He began his career as a stone-mason, and by his ability and perseverance rose to the respectable position of a master builder. He died at Dalswinton, near Dumfries, on the 27th July 1832. John, the third brother, who died in early life, evinced a turn for mechanism, and wrote respectable verses. Peter, the fifth son, studied medicine, and became a surgeon in the navy; he still survives, resident at Greenwich, and is known as the author of two respectable works, bearing the t.i.tles, ”Two Years in New South Wales,” and ”Hints to Australian Emigrants.” Of the five daughters, one of whom only survives, all gave evidence of intellectual ability.

[8] Writing to Mr Gabriel Neil of Glasgow, in January 1834, along with a copy of the first volume, Cunningham remarks, ”I hope you will like the Life; a third of it is new, so are many of the anecdotes, and I am willing to stand or fall as an author by it.” Mr Neil, it may be added, contributed to Cunningham a great deal of original information as to the life of the poet, and also some of his unpublished poems.

SHE 'S GANE TO DWALL IN HEAVEN.

She 's gane to dwall in heaven, my la.s.sie, She 's gane to dwall in heaven: ”Ye 're owre pure,” quo' the voice o' G.o.d, ”For dwalling out o' heaven!”

Oh, what 'll she do in heaven, my la.s.sie?

Oh, what 'll she do in heaven?

She 'll mix her ain thoughts wi' angels' sangs, And make them mair meet for heaven.

She was beloved by a', my la.s.sie, She was beloved by a'; But an angel fell in love wi' her, An' took her frae us a'.

Lowly there thou lies, my la.s.sie, Lowly there thou lies; A bonnier form ne'er went to the yird, Nor frae it will arise!

Fu' soon I 'll follow thee, my la.s.sie, Fu' soon I 'll follow thee; Thou left me naught to covet ahin', But took gudeness sel' wi' thee.

I look'd on thy death-cold face, my la.s.sie, I look'd on thy death-cold face; Thou seem'd a lily new cut i' the bud, An' fading in its place.

I look'd on thy death-shut eye, my la.s.sie, I look'd 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 la.s.sie, 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, la.s.sie, There 's naught but dust now mine; My soul 's wi' thee i' the cauld grave, An' why should I stay behin'?

THE LOVELY La.s.s OF PRESTON MILL.

The lark had left the evening cloud, The dew was soft, the wind was lowne, The gentle breath amang the flowers Scarce stirr'd the thistle's tap o' down; The dappled swallow left the pool, The stars were blinking owre the hill, As I met amang the hawthorns green The lovely la.s.s of Preston Mill.

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