They lifted Kilmeny, they led her away, And she walked in the light of a sunless day; The sky was a dome of crystal bright, The fountain of vision, and fountain of light; The emerald fields were of dazzling glow, And the flowers of everlasting blow. Then deep in the stream her body they laid, That her youth and beauty never might fade; And they smiled on heaven when they saw her lie In the stream of life that wandered by; And she heard a song, she heard it sung, She kend not where, but sae sweetly it rung, It fell on her ear like a dream of the morn. 'O! blest be the day Kilmeny was born! Now shall the land of the spirits see, Now shall it ken what a woman may be ! The sun that shines on the world sae bright, A borrowed gleid frae the fountain of light; And the moon that sleeks the sky sae dun, Like a gowden bow, or a beamless sun, Shall wear away, and be seen nae mair, And the angels shall miss them travelling the air. But lang, lang after baith night and day, When the sun and the world have elyed away; When the sinner has gane to his waesome doom, Kilmeny shall smile in eternal bloom!' Then Kilmeny begged again to see And the glories that lay in the land unseen. . . . All happed with flowers in the greenwood wene. For there was no pride nor passion there; And her cheek the moss-rose in the shower; To suck the flowers and drink the spring, Oh, then the glen was all in motion; The wolf and the kid their raike began, And the tod, and the lamb, and the leveret ran; The hawk and the hern attour them hung, It was like an eve in a sinless world! To the Comet of 1811. How lovely is this wildered scene, As twilight from her vaults so blue Steals soft o'er Yarrow's mountains green, To sleep embalmed in midnight dew! All hail, ye hills, whose towering height, Like shadows, scoops the yielding sky! And thou, mysterious guest of night, Dread traveller of immensity! Stranger of heaven! I bid thee hail! Art thou the flag of woe and death, From angel's ensign-staff unfurled? Art thou the standard of his wrath Waved o'er a sordid sinful world? No, from that pure pellucid beam, Bright herald of the eternal throne ! Whate'er portends thy front of fire, Thy streaming locks so lovely paleOr peace to man, or judgments dire, Stranger of heaven, I bid thee hail! Where hast thou roamed these thousand years? And when thou scal'st the Milky-way, O! on thy rapid prow to glide! To sail the boundless skies with thee, And plough the twinkling stars aside, Like foam-bells on a tranquil sea! To brush the embers from the sun, Where other moons and planets roll! Stranger of heaven! O let thine eye Smile on a rapt enthusiast's dream; Eccentric as thy course on high, And airy as thine ambient beam! And long, long may thy silver ray Light the gray portals of the morn! It was reckoned by many that this was the same comet which appeared at the birth of our Saviour.-Hogg. 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 pseudoantique 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. 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 perseverance, undebased by any of the alloys by which the former is too often accompanied. The Young Maxwell. 'Where gang ye, thou silly auld carle? And what do ye carry there?' His 'I'm gaun to the hillside, thou sodger gentleman, 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 to be a feck auld carle, Will ye shaw the way to me?' And he has gane wi' the silly auld carle, He drew the reins o' his bonny gray steed, Of the comeliest scarlet was his weir coat, He has thrown aff his plaid, the silly auld carle, 'Thou killed my father, thou vile South'ron! 'Draw out yere sword, thou vile South'ron! '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, Hame, Hame, Hame. Hame, hame, hame, hame fain wad I be, tree, The larks shall sing me hame in my ain countrie; Hame, hame, hame, hame fain wad I be, O hame, hame, hame, to my ain countrie! The green leaf o' loyalty's begun for to fa', O there's naught frae ruin my country can save, The great are now gane, a' wha ventured to save, [Fragment.] Gane were but the winter-cauld, And gane were but the snaw, I could sleep in the wild woods, Where primroses blaw. Cauld's the snaw at my head, And cauld at my feet, And the finger o' death's at my een, Closing them to sleep. Let nane tell my father, Or my mither sae dear, I'll meet them baith in heaven At the spring o' the year. She's Gane to Dwall in Heaven. She's gane to dwall in heaven, my lassie, O what'll she do in heaven, my lassie? She'll mix her ain thoughts wi' angels' sangs, 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, I looked on thy death-cold face, my lassie, I looked on thy death-shut eye, my lassie, Thy lips were ruddy and calm, my lassie, There's naught but dust now mine, lassie, A Wet Sheet and a Flowing Sea. A wet sheet and a flowing sea, O for a soft and gentle wind! But give to me the snoring breeze, And white waves heaving high, my boys, There's tempest in yon horned moon, And lightning in yon cloud; And hark the music, mariners, The lightning flashing free While the hollow oak our palace is, My Nanie O. Red rows the Nith 'tween bank and brae, Though heaven and earth should mix in storm, My kind and winsome Nanie O, She holds my heart in love's dear bands, In preaching-time sae meek she stands, The world's in love with Nanie 0; That heart is hardly worth the wear That wadna love my Nanie O. My breast can scarce contain my heart, I guess what heaven is by her eyes, My Nanie O, my Nanie 0; 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, Nane ken o' me and Nanie O; The Poet's Bridal-day Song. O! my love's like the steadfast sun, Even while I muse, I see thee sit 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; Have dimmed thine eye, and touched thy rose; And fancy in her heaven flies free- O, when more thought we gave of old To silver than some give to gold; 'Twas sweet to sit and ponder o'er A song-wreath which may grace my Jean, At times there come, as come there ought, A mother's heart shine in thine eye; WILLIAM TENNANT. mated, 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: I wish I had a cottage snug and neat Upon the top of many fountained Ide, The bright-gowned Morning tripping up her side: The saffron-elbowed Morning up the slope Of heaven canaries in her jewelled shoes, Up heaven's blue causeway, of her beams profuse, Round through the vast circumference of sky One speck of small cloud cannot eye behold, Lolling, in amaranthine flowers enrolled, The fair Earth laughs through all her boundless range, Gilt as with Nature's purest leaf-gold seem; Up from their nests and fields of tender corn 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 subjects-supernatural 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, WILLIAM TENNANT, was a native of Anstruther, or Anster, who, whilst filling the situation of clerk in a mercantile establishment, 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 annuma 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 ani- imaginative. For when the first upsloping ray was flung On Anster steeple's swallow-harbouring top, Even till he smoked with sweat, his greasy rope, And, from our steeple's pinnacle outspread, The town's long colours flare and flap on high, The description of the heroine is passionate and |