been the fine old love songs of Scotland. It is only at rare intervals, however, that the true spirit is caught, and even then passes hastily away. Often he has left us but faint echoes of these glorious originals. If judged by his compositions in English alone such as the Rose of Corby-he must be pronounced a poor metre-monger. Even his songs in the Cumberland dialect, upon which his reputation is entirely built, possess very unequal merit. Many are of the most commonplace order; while others are faithfully limned and touched in with the nicety of a Dutch painter. As specimens of his better style we would single out The Impatient Lassie, Will and Kate, King Roger, The Bashfu Wooer, Gwordie Gill, Peggy Pen, and the Worton Wedding. These are songs which any county, within the four seas, might be proud to possess. Had Anderson aroused himself to a greater earnestness of purpose, and not frittered away his powers by continued scribbling, he might have attained much greater excellence and fame. As it was, we find that instead of rising to the dignity of his subject, he too often fell below it. In looking around on humanity, the sweep of his mind was narrow and circumscribed. He has merely sketched the eddies floating on the surface, and left the deep undercurrent to roll on undisturbed. The passions, virtues, and struggles of life in its humbler forms, remain untouched-of these he knew little and sung nothing. That there are pure and elevating subjects for poetry to be found "in huts were poor men lie," no one can gainsay. Have not many of our poets given us bursts of noble and tender feelings which had their origin in the lowly homes of the people; as witness Wordsworth, Hood, Kingsley, Gerald Massey, and above all Robert Burns? Tried by this standard Anderson's ballads will certainly be found wanting; and yet from many points of view he has left us a great deal that is valuable. His pages reflect so much of the peasant's ordinary every-day life, that country lasses will long delight to warble his love-songs; and rustic lads will continue to set the village gathering, seated round the winter fireside, in roars of laughter with his humorous songs. ROBERT ANDERSON'S CUMBERLAND BALLADS. REED ROBIN. [AIR: "Hallow Fair."-"This song," says Anderson, "was occasioned by a redbreast visiting for five years my retired apartments in the centre of Carlisle. He commonly gave me his first cheerful strain in the beginning of September; and sang his farewell to the noise and smoke of the town in April. So tame was the merry minstrel, that he frequently made a hearty repast within a few inches of the paper on which I wrote." An imitation of this song, commencing "O where are you going sweet Robin," will be found in Whitelaw's Book of Scottish Songs.] OME into my cabin, reed Robin! Threyce welcome, blythe warbler, to me! Now Skiddaw hes thrown his wheyte cap on, Agean I'll gi'e shelter to thee. Just hop thy ways into my pantry, And feast on my peer humble fare; I never was fash'd wid a dainty, But meyne, man or bird sal ay share. Now four years are by-geane, reed Robin, I then had a bonny bit lassie, Away wid anudder she's geane; Oh, where is thy sweetheart, reed Robin ? November, 1800. BETTY BROWN. AIR: "John Anderson my jo." WULLY. Come, Gwordie lad, unyoke the yad, Peed Dick, and monie mair: My titty Greace and Jenny Bell Are gangen bye and bye, Sae doff thy clogs, and don thysel- GWORDIE. O, Wully! leetsome may ye be! But now I's aw queyte wrang; But nobbet pech, and gowl, and fret, Sin Cuddy Wulson' murry-neet, Tou kens we danc'd a threesome reel, And Betty set to me She luik'd sae neyce, and danc'd sae weel, What cou'd a body de? My fadder fratches sair eneugh, My mudder caws me peer deyl'd guff, If Betty I but neame ; Atween the twea there's sec a frase, Yet, what's far waur, aye Betty says, |