"O see ye not yon narrow road,
So thick beset with thorns and briers?
That is the path of righteousness
Tho' after it but few inquires.
"And see ye not that braid, braid road,
That lies across the lily leven?
That is the path of wickedness,
Tho' some call it the road to heaven.
"And see ye not that bonny road
That winds about the fernie brae?
That is the road to fair Elf land,
Where thou and I this night maun gae.
"But, Thomas, ye maun hold your tongue,
Whatever ye may hear or see;
For if ye speak word in Elfin land
Ye'll ne'er get back to your ain countrie."
O they rade on and farther on,
And they waded through rivers aboon the knee,
And they saw neither the sun nor moon,
But they heard the roaring of the sea.
It was mirk mirk night, and there was nae stern-light,
And they waded through red blude to the knee,
For a' the blude that's shed on earth
Rins through the springs o' that countrie."
The late ingenious Mr Cromek was not, so far as we know, physically blind, but most assuredly there hung a heavy cloud over his mental light, since he could not discern the burning stamp of original genius in the fragments which were communicated to him by Allan Cunningham, and which he published under the title of "Remains of Nithsdale and Galloway Song." Poor Allan Cunningham has passed away from amongst us, not unknown indeed, nor unhonoured, but without having received that full meed of praise and fame which was justly his due. For Allan, though a most industrious man, was far too careless of his poetic reputation, and never could be prevailed on to collect together those scattered snatches of song, which he had sown with too liberal a hand in detached and distant places. But the service which he would not render to himself, has been performed by filial piety; and we now congratulate the public on their possessing, in a cheap and elegant form, the works of the most tender and pathetic of the Scottish Minstrels who have arisen since the death of Burns. If this little book does not become a favourite, and if it does not speedily make its way, not only into every library, but into every farm-steading of Scotland—if the poems of Allan Cunningham do not become as familiar to the lips, and as dear to the hearts, of our shepherds and our peasantry, as those of his great predecessor—then we shall be constrained to believe that the age is indeed an iron one, that the heart of our beloved country has at last grown cold, and its impulses less fervid than of yore. It is now nearly thirty years ago—a long, long time to us—since Cromek's collection of Remains was noticed in this Magazine. Cunningham was then in the flush and zenith of his genius, with years, as we had fondly hoped, of fame before him, and all the early difficulties which beset the path of a youthful poet overcome. He was then urged to a diligent cultivation of the glorious talent he possessed, and to a further development of the seeds of poetry which lay within his own bosom, and in the spirit of his native land. And surely had Allan acted thus, and confined himself to the range of literature within which he had few equals and no superior, he would ere now have gained a lofty and imperishable name. But a mistaken ambition diverted him to other tasks. He left the field of song to wander through the forest of romance, and we fear that he lost himself amidst its mazes.
It is upon the present collection of his poems and songs that Cunningham's fame must rest; and small as is the bulk of the volume, we yet do not hesitate to say that it would be difficult to point out another containing more lyrics of exquisite beauty, with fewer palpable blemishes. Cunningham's poetical style is both rare and remarkable. With a singular simplicity of diction, he combines imagery of the highest kind, and a pathos which at once finds its way to the heart of every reader. To many of our friends the following ballad may be familiar; but as a new generation who know less of Allan has arisen since the days of Cromek, we may be excused for transferring once more to our pages a gem of such purity and lustre.
"She's gane to dwall in heaven, my lassie,
She's gane to dwall in heaven;
'Ye're owre pure,' quo' the voice o' God,
'For dwalling out o' heaven!'
O what'll she do in heaven, my lassie?
O what'll she do in heaven?
She'll mix her ain thoughts wi' angel's sangs,
An' make them mair meet for heaven.