Psalms, and then went home full of the meek and lowly composure of religion." There's kames o' hinney 'tween my luve's lips, An' gowd amang her hair, Her breasts are lapt in a holie veil, Nae mortal een keek there. What lips dare kiss, or what hand dare touch, Or the waist o' Ladie Ann. She kisses the lips o' her bonnie red rose But nae gentle lip, nor simple lip, Maun touch her Ladie mou. But a broider'd belt wi' a buckle o' gowd, O she's an armfu' fit for heaven, Her bower casement is latticed wi' flowers, She waves the ringlets frae her cheek, My bonnie Ladie Ann ! The morning cloud is tassel'd wi' gowd, Like my luve's broider'd cap. Cast by no earthlie han', An' the breath o' God's atween the lips I am her father's gardener lad, An' poor, poor is my fa'; My auld mither gets my wee, wee fee, O the blessing o' God maun mix wi' my luve, An' fa' on' Ladie Ann! There is, we think, much true love in the following stanzas,-warmth, tenderness, and delicacy. Cauld winter is awa, my luve, And spring is in her prime, Come here, come here, my spousal dame,' A theme which pleaseth me. What says the sangster Rose-linnet? Come here, come here, my ruddie mate, The gate o' luve to try.' The lav'roc calls his freckled mate, Frae near the sun's ee-bree, Come make on the knowe our nest of luve,' A theme which pleaseth me. The hares hae brought forth twins, my love, Sae has the cushat doo; The raven croaks a safter way, His sootie love to woo:" And nought but luve, luve breathes around, O Lassie, is thy heart mair hard Ne'er lighten'd in your ee? O, if thou canst na feel for pain, Thou art nae theme for me? Burns, though the best song-writer in the world, has not, in our opinion, produced six songs equal to Allan Cunningham's "Lass of Preston Mill.” Why does it not find its way into musical collections? The lark had left the evening cloud, The dew fell saft, the wind was lowne, The stars were blinking o'er the hill; Seemed like twa dew-gemmed lilies fair; And heaven seemed looking through her een, Quo' I, fair lass, will ye gang wi' me, Sax vales are lowing wi' my kye: I hae looked lang for a weel-faur'd lass, Quo' I, sweet maiden, look nae down, A lovelier face, O! never looked up, That weel could win a woman's will; Quo' the lovely lass o' Preston Mill. O wha is he wha could leave sic a lass, My heart is fu' o' ither love,' Quo' the lovely lass o' Preston Mill. She streeked to heaven her twa white hands, And lifted up her watry ee; Sae lang's my heart kens ought o' God, Or light is gladsome to my ee ; While woods grow green, and burns rin clear, Till my last drap o' blood be still, My heart sall haud nae ither love,' Quo' the lovely lass o' Preston Mill. There's comelie maids on Dee's wild banks, By lanely 'Clouden's hermit stream, We finish our quotations from this somewhat mysterious volume with the longest poem in it; and as there is no doubt whatever, that it is by Allan Cunningham, our readers will, from its perusal, judge for themselves of his powers as a poet. There's a maid has sat o' the green merse side An' every first night o' the new moon She kames her yellow hair. An' ay while she sheds the yellow burning gowd, Till the fairest bird that wooes the green wood, But whae'er listens to that sweet sang, It fell in about the sweet simmer month, That she sat o' the tap of a sea-weed rock, Her kame was o' the whitely pearl, Her breasts were o' the snawy curd, She kamed her locks owre her white shoulders, A fleece baith bonny and lang; An' ilka ringlet she shed frae her brows, I' the very first liit o' that sweet sang, And' they flew i' the gate o' the gray howlet, I' the second lilt o' that sweet sang, The tod lap up owre our fauld-dyke, I' the very third lilt o' that sweet sang, The stars drapped blude on the yellow gowan tap, I haedwalt on the Nith,' quo' the young Cowehill, But the sweetest sang e'er brake frae a lip, O is it a voice frae twa earthlie lips, It wad wyle the lark frae the morning lift, I dreamed a dreary thing, master, I dreamed ye kissed a pair o' sweet lips, Till I kiss the lips whilk sing sae sweet, 'Kiss nae the singer's lips, master, Touch nae her hand,' quo' the little foot-page, 'If skaithless hame ye'd win. O wha will sit on yere toom saddle, O wha will bruik yere gluve; An' wha will fauld yere erled bride, I' the kindlie clasps o' luve?' He took aff his hat, a' gowd i' the rim, He seemed a' in lowe wi' his gowd raiment, The simmer-dew fa's saft, fair maid, But eerie is thy seat i' the rock, Come wash me wi' thy lilie white hand, An' I'll kame thae links o' yellow burning gowd, How rosie are thy parting lips, "Tak aff thae bars an' bobs o' gowd, An' a' in courtesie fair knight, A maiden's mind to win, Syne coost he aff his green mantle, 'Now ye maun kame my yellow hair, But come first tauk me 'neath the chin, An' spread my hanks o' wat'ry hair, O! if ye'll come to the bonnie Cowehill, I'll wash thee ilk day i'the new milked milk, An' a' for a drink o' the clear water Ye'se hae the rosie wine, An' a' for the water white lilie, Ye'se hae these arms o' mine.' But what 'll she say, yere bonnie young bride Busked wi' the siller fine; Whan the rich kisses ye kept for her lips, Are left wi' vows on mine?' He took his lips frae her red-rose meu', It's time I were awa.' "O gie me a token o'luve sweet May, A leal luve token true;' She crapped a lock o' yellow gowden hair, "O tie nae it sae strait, sweet May, His skin turned a' o' the red-rose hue, An' he laid his head 'mang the water lilies, She tyed ae link o' her wat yellow hair, Among his curling haffet locks She knotted knurles three. She weaved owre his brow the white lilie, 'Gif ye were seven times bride-groom owre, O twice he turned his sinking head, O twice he sought to lift the links 'Arise, sweet knight, yere young bride waits, An' doubts her ale will sowre; An' wistly looks at the lily white sheets, An' she has prenned the broidered silk, Her princely petticoat is on, He faintlie, slowlie, turn'd his cheek, And he strave to lowse the witching bands Then took she up his green mantle Of lowing gowd the hem; Then took she up his silken cap, Rich wi' a siller stem; An' she threw them wi' her lilie hand Amang the white sea faem. She took the bride ring frac his finger That hand shall mense nae ither ring Lythlie she sang while the new-moon raise, When the new-moon lights her lamp o' luve, Nithsdale, thou art a gay garden, An' I will kepp the drapping dew An' the balmy blobs o' ilka leaf, An' I will wash thy white bosom An' ay she sewed her silken snood, The sun lowed ruddie 'mang the dew, Sat wi' a wat-shod ee. Ilk breath o' wind 'mang the forest leaves She sat high on the tap towre stane, She wiped the tear-blobs frae her ee, First sang to her the blythe wee bird, Loose out the love curls frae yere hair, An' the spreckled woodlark frae 'mang the clouds Tauk out the bride-knots frae yere hair 'Come, byde wi' me, ye pair o' sweet birds, Ye sall peckle o' the bread an' drink o' the wine, She laid the bride-cake 'neath her head, An' syne below her feet; An' laid her down 'tween the lilie white sheets An' soundlie did she sleep! It was i' the mid-hour of the night, Her siller-bell did ring; An' soun't as if nae earthlie hand There was a cheek touch'd that ladye's, An' a hand cauld as the drifting snaw O cauld is thy hand, my dear Willie, We have seen what a great genius has lately been able to make of the Scottish character in those wonderful Prose Tales which have revealed to us secrets supposed to have been for ever buried in forgetfulness. Ten thousand themes are yet left untouched to native poets-for, after all, Burns has drawn but few finished pictures, and was, for the most part, satisfied with general sketches and rapid outlines. It is not easy to imagine the existence of a more original poet than Burns, who shall also be moved by an equal sympathy with lowly life ;—but it is very easy to imagine the existence of a poet who shall possess a far deeper insight into the grandeur and pathos of that lowly life, who shall contemplate it with a more habitual reverence, and exhibit it in a nobler, yet perfectly natural, mould of poetry. With all our admiration of the genius both of the Ettrick Shepherd and of Allan Cunningham, we are not prepared to say that either of them is such a poet-but we have not the slightest doubt, that if either of them were to set himself seriously to the study of the character of the peasantry of Scotland, as a subject of poetry, he might produce something of deep and universal interest, and leave behind him an imperishable name. THE CLYDESDALE YEOMAN'S RETURN. An excellent new ballad to the tune of Grammachroe. Written and Sung by DR SCOTT. 'Twas on a Wednesday evening, John Craig came darkling hame, "Gude words, gude wife," quoth Johnny, "I'm sure you cannot say Vol. VI. 2$ And 'tis, "Oh, John Craig! wae woman, full surely ye'll make me, An orra cup I might forgie-but oh ! the night is black, That frae a weaver-meeting I see my man come back. And 'tis, oh, John! think and ponder, for they're neer-do-weels, I trow, "Cheer up, gudewife, cheer up, Jean-what's all this fuss?" quoth John"Gude troth a little matter gars a woman to take on It was but Charlie Howatt persuaded me to stay To see the fun for once, and hear what the callants had to say But 'tis true ye speak, they're neer-do-weels-they are a Godless crew, And I'll gang back nae mair, Jean, for I've seen and heard enow." And 'tis, "Oh, John Craig-blythe woman-me now your words have made”— And with that a rowth o' peats and sticks aboon the fire is laid And the auld green bottle is brought furth, and John his quaigh runs o'er, Sae kind the mistress had not been this mony a night before! "And 'tis-touch your cup, John Craig, my man-for a weary way ye've been, Now tell me all the fairlies-here's to you John," quo' Jean. "A good ten thousand weavers and colliers from Tollcross, But the darkest sight of all I saw, was the women that were there, "But, by God's grace, no such disgrace shall come upon our head, Nay, God preserve the King," quoth Jean, " and bless the Prince, his son, And send good trade to weaver lads, and this work will all be done; For 'tis idle hand makes busy tongue, and troubles all the land God's blessed word-King George's crown-and proud old Scotland's laws!” THE WARDER. No II. "LET MINE ENEMY BE AS THE WICKED, AND HE THAT RISETH UP AGAINST ME AS THE UNRIGHTEOUS WHEN we last addressed our readers on the state of Public Affairs, and on the symptoms of the diseases of the times, the country was looking forward with strong and high hopes which have not been disappointed-to the meeting of Parliament. All the lovers of freedom, order, and religion, and none but they can be lovers of the land in which all these Sanctities have so long dwelt inviolated, well knew, that when the Grand Council of the Nation assembled, the voice of Britain would be there lifted up in recognition and defence of those principles by which alone the glory of a great People can be upheld. That a black and evil spirit had been too long brewing among the dregs of society, and that that spirit had been stirred up, and fed, and strengthened by wicked men, who hoped to see it ere long burst out into conflagration, was, we may safely say, an almost universal belief; and the only difference of opinion among good and wise men was with regard to the greatness and the proximity of the danger. When the character of a people seems to be not only shaken and disturbed, but vitiated and poisoned,-when it is no longer mere discontent, or disaffection to government that is heard murmuring throughout the lower ranks of life-but a bold and fierce and reckless spirit of impiety and irreligion, it is the bounden duty of all who are free from that malignant disease, and resolved to arrest its progress, to become Alarmists. There is no reproach, but true praise in the epithet, when bestowed not on mere sticklers for men and measures—but on them who know, from the melancholy history ofhuman nature, how rapid and deadly is the contagion of infidelity-how fearful its ravages when it is spread among the poor-how difficult the cure, but how easy the prevention. There is something cowardly in being prone to fear even the most angry and threatening discontent of the people-more especially in times of distress and privation; and there is no such proneness JOB XXVII. 7. now visible in the character of British statesmen. But not to fear, or at least not to prepare for resistance, when the object threatened or assailed is no other than the Religion of our country, would betoken a shocking insensibility to the blessings which it bestows, and a shocking ingratitude to the God by whom it was revealed. It is not to be wondered at, therefore, that almost all persons of any degree of knowledge and education, have expressed alarm for their country, and, along with that alarm, a determination to guard its threatened blessings. The language of impiety has come upon their ears, not from the dark dens alone of our crowded cities, but even from the hamlet and the village that once stood in the peacefulness of nature, like so many little worlds, happy in the simplicity of their manners, the blamelessness of their morals, and the confidence of their faith. Accustomed as they had been to look with delight, and awe, and reverence, on all those forms and services of religion by which its Spirit is kept alive in men's hearts, and which have been created by the devout aspirations of human nature seeking alliance with Higher Power,the most ordinary men were startled and confounded to hear all religious establishments with the foulest execrations threatened and assailed, and that Book from which all truth and knowledge has spread over the world, daily and weekly exposed, beneath the skies of Britain, to the most hideous profanation. The danger has not struck only the clear-sighted and the high-souled-but it has forced itself upon the thoughts of men of every character and condition; and the humblest and lowliest Christian has looked forth with sorrow from the quiet homestead of his own inoffensive and retired life, on the loud and tumultuous spirit of infidelity abroad in the world. But it is not to be thought that, in a country like Britain, where there is and so long has been so much talent, genius, philosophy, and erudition, |