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'.
Lowly there thou lies, my lassie,
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 lassie,
Fu' soon I'll follow thee;
Thou left me nought to covet ahin',
But took gudeness sel' wi' thee.
I look'd in thy death-cold face, my lassie,
I look'd in 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 lassie,
I look'd on thy death-shut eye;
And a lovelier light, in the brow of heaven,
Fell Time shall ne'er destroy.
Thy lips were ruddy and calm, my lassie,
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, lassie,
There's naught but dust now mine;
My soul's wi' thee i' the cauld grave,
An' why should I stay behin'!"
We really must find fault with Mr Peter Cunningham for calling this, and others of his father's choicest productions, "imitations of the old ballad." They are no more imitations than the finest poems of Burns, or Hogg, or Motherwell. They are, it is true, written in the Scots dialect, and they share, along with the old traditional strains, the charm of a sweet simplicity; but every one of them came direct from the heart of our beloved Allan, and are, in their way, as truly original compositions as any burst that ever yet was uttered by inspired poet under the canopy of heaven. Poor old Cromek, who knew as little about the Scottish ballads as Mr Sheldon, believed them to be ancient, and, we dare say, died in that belief. But every man here, who knew or cared about the matter, saw at once that such poems as "The Lord's Marie," or "Bonnie Lady Anne," were neither ancient nor imitated; and accordingly, by the common consent of his brethren, Allan Cunningham was at once enrolled on the list of the sweet singers of Scotland—and long and distant be the day when his name shall be forgotten on the flowery braes of Nithsdale, or the pleasant holms of Dalswinton, which in life he loved so well.
The last work which we have to notice is the collected edition of Motherwell's Poems, which has just issued from the Glasgow Press, under the auspices of Mr James M'Conechy. William Motherwell must always stand very high in the list of the minor Scottish poets, and one lyric of his, "Jeanie Morrison," is as pathetic as any in the language. But of him so much has already been said in former numbers of Maga, that we may dispense with present criticism: and we shall merely draw the attention of the lovers of the supernatural to a more terrific temptation of Saint Anthony than ever was painted by Teniers. Motherwell was a noted ghost-seer, and few could beat him in the magic circle. Witness "Elfinland Wud," which is enough to frighten, not a nursery of children, but a score of bearded callants out of their wits, if they heard it chanted, on an eerie night, in the dim forests of Glenmore.