No better representative of the genuine Scot, pure and undefiled, could be pointed out than Allan Cunningham; and Scott's epithet of "honest Allan" is the most natural reflection suggested by his whole character. If he were a great genius, we could not regard him as a type of the cautious common-sense Scot, ambitious to get on, but determined to work his way up.

He was the fourth son of John Cunningham and Elizabeth Harley, and was born on the 7th December 1784, at Blackwood, in Nithsdale. His father was gardener to a neighbouring gentleman, and afterwards became land-steward to Mr Miller of Dalswinton.

He received an ordinary education, and in his eleventh year was apprenticed to his elder brother as a mason. He displayed an early love for reading, and in his sixth year heard Burns read "Tam O'Shanter" in his father's house.

He early became acquainted with the Ettrick Shepherd, who was for some time a tenant in Dumfriesshire, and his emulation was roused by the literary atmosphere into which his love of reading and his youthful ambition led him. When Marmion was published, he came all the way to Edinburgh for the purpose of getting a look at its author.

His first appearance in literature was in the Scots Magazine. In 1810, he

| went to London on the invitation of Cromek, with whom he stayed till he saw what may be called his first work through the press. Cromek died shortly after the issue of Remains of Nithsdale and Galloway Song, which was mostly written by Cunningham, though palmed upon Cromek as recovered antiques. After Cromek's death, he wrought at his trade, and also tried to maintain himself by writing for the press; but in 1814, he was engaged by Sir Francis Chantrey, the sculptor, as superintendent or clerk of works, and in this situation he remained for the rest of his life. His after-writings were the recreations of his leisure hours. In 1822, he published Sir Marmaduke Maxwell, and from that time till 1824, Traditional Tales appeared as magazine contributions, and were after wards published in two vols. In 1825, appeared his collection of The Songs of Scotland: Ancient and Modern, and from 1826 to 1832, the novels Paul Jones, Sir Michael Scott, and Sir Roldan. After this he wrote The Maid of Elvar, a rustic epic, and published Burns's Life and Works in eight volumes. The Lives of Eminent British Painters, Sculptors, and Architects next appeared. His last work was The Life of Sir David Wilkie, in three volumes. It was only completed two days before his death, which took place suddenly on October 29th, 1842. Allan's writings are not of the highest

order, but are in every way like his life, a credit to himself and his country. "A Wet Sheet and a Flowing Sea," is a piece of genuine inspiration, and no less remarkable as the production of one who can have had little or no acquaintance with the sea. His four sons inherited their father's literary tastes. An extended life of him was published in 1875.

JOHN GRUMLIE.

[Based upon the "Wife of Auchtermuchty."]

John Grumlie swore by the light o' the

moon,

And the green leaves on the tree, That he could do more work in a day

Than his wife could do in three. His wife rose up in the morning

Wi' cares and troubles enow-
John Grumlie, bide at hame, John,
And I'll go haud the plow.

First ye maun dress your children fair,
And put them a' in their gear;
And ye maun turn the malt, John,
Or else ye'll spoil the beer;
And ye maun reel the tweel, John,

That I span yesterday;
And ye maun ca' in the hens, John,
Else they'll all lay away.

O he did dress his children fair,
And put them a' in their gear;
But he forgot to turn the malt,

And so he spoil'd the beer:

And he sang loud as he reeled the tweel

That his wife span yesterday ;

But he forgot to put up the hens,
And the hens all layed away.

The hawket crummie loot down nae milk;
He kirned, nor butter gat;

And a' gade wrang, and nought gade right;
He danced with rage, and grat.
Then up he ran to the head o' the knowe
Wi' mony a wave.and shout-
She heard him as she heard him not,
And steered the stots about.

John Grumlie's wife cam hame at e'en,
A weary wife and sad,
And burst into a laughter loud,

And laughed as she'd been mad : While John Grumlie swore by the light o' the moon,

And the green leaves on the tree, If my wife should na win a penny a day, She's aye have her will for me.

A WET SHEET.

A wet sheet and a flowing sea,
A wind that follows fast,
That fills the white and swelling sail,
And bends the gallant mast:
And bends the gallant mast, my boys,
While like the eagle free,
Away the good ship flies, and leaves
Old England on the lee.

O for a soft and gentle wind !

I heard a fair one cry;

But give to me the snoring breeze,
And white waves heaving high:
The white waves heaving high, my boys,
The good ship tight and free-
The world of waters is our home,
And merry men are we.

There's tempest in yon hornèd moon,
And lightning in yon cloud;
And hark the music, mariners !

The wind is piping loud.
The wind is piping loud, my boys,
The lightning flashes free-
While the hollow oak our palace is,
Our heritage the sea.

THE WEE, WEE GERMAN LAIRDIE.

Wha the deil hae we got for a King,
But a wee, wee German lairdie !
An' when we gade to bring him hame,
He was delving in his kail-yairdie.
Sheughing kail an' dibbling leeks,
Scarce of hose and scant o' breeks,
Up his beggar duds he cleeks,

The wee, wee German lairdie.

An' he's clapt down in our gudeman's chair,

The wee, wee German lairdie;

O' stinking weeds he's brought the seeds,
An' sawed them in our yairdie.
He's pu'd the rose o' English clowns,
An' brak the harp o' Irish lowns,

But the thristle tap will jag his thumbs,
The wee, wee German lairdie.
Come up amang the Highland hills,
Thou wee, wee German lairdie ;
An' see how Charlie's lang kail thrives,
He dibblit in his yairdie.

An' if a stock ye daur to pu',
Or haud the yoking of a pleugh,
We'll break yer sceptre o'er yer mou',
Thou wee bit German lairdie.

Our hills are steep, our glens are deep,
Nor fitting for a yairdie;
An' our norlan' thristles winna pu',

Thou wee, wee German lairdie!
An' we've the trenching blades o' weir,
Wad twine ye o' yer German gear;
An' pass ye 'neath the claymore's shear,
Thou feckless German lairdie !

THE pawky humour of "Tak it, man, tak it," is thoroughly Scotch, although the natural incidents and mental impressions which it so happily turns into song are true to universal experience. Its author, David Webster, was a native of Dunblane, and though born of humble parents, was being educated for the Church when his father died; he was in consequence sent to learn weaving in Paisley.

He was of a social disposition, and giving way to the allurements of convivial society, the invariable results followed. He published his poems in 1835, under the title of Scottish Rhymes, and in 1837, he died in his fiftieth year.

TAK' IT MAN, TAK' IT,

When I was a miller in Fife, Losh! I thought that the sound o' the happer

Said Tak' hame a wee flow to your wife,

To help to be brose to your supper. Then my conscience was narrow and pure, But someway by random it rackit; For I lifted twa nievefu' or mair,

While the happer said, Tak' it, man, tak' it.

Then hey for the mill and the kill,
The garland and gear for my cogie,
And hey for the whisky and yill,
That washes the dust frae my craigie.

Although it's been lang in repute
For rogues to mak rich by deceiving;
Yet I see that it disna weel suit

Honest men to begin to the thieving. For my heart it gaed dunt upon dunt, 'Od, I thought ilka dunt it wad crackit, Sae I flang frae my nieve what was in't, Still the happer said, Tak' it, man, tak' it.

Then hey for the mill, &c.

A man that's been bred to the plough, Might be deaved wi' its clamerous clapper;

Yet there's few but would suffer the sough, After kenning what's said by the happer.

I whiles thought it scoff'd me to scorn, Saying, shame, is your conscience no chackit;

But when I grew dry for a horn,

It changed aye to Tak' it, man, tak' it.
Then hey for the mill, &c.

The smugglers whiles cam' wi' their pocks,
'Cause they kent that I liked a bicker,
Sae I bartered whiles wi' the gowks,
Gi'ed them grain for a soup o' their
liquor.

I had lang been accustomed to drink, And aye when I purposed to quat it, That thing wi' its clapertie clink,

Said aye to me, Tak' it, man, tak' it. Then hey for the mill, &c.

But the warst thing I did in my life, Nae doubt but ye'll think I was wrang o't,

'Od, I tauld a bit bodie in Fife

A' my tale, and he made a bit sang o't. I have aye had a voice a' my days,

But for singin' I ne'er gat the knack o't; Yet I try whiles, just thinking to please My frien's here, wi' Tak' it, man, tak' it.

Then hey for the mill,

Now, miller and a' as I am,

This far I can see through the matter; There's men mair notorious to fame,

Mair greedy than me o' the muter. For 'twad seem that the hale race o' men, Or wi' safety, the half we may mak' it, Ha'e some speaking happer within, That says aye to them, Tak' it, man, tak' it.

Then hey for the mill, &c.

less bairn!

"O'ER the Mist-shrouded Clifts has much of the style and ease of Burns, and is so suited to his circumstances that it even yet appears in editions of his poems as his composition. It

is the only inspired effusion of John Burt, who was born at Knockmarloch, in Ayrshire. His education was very

limited, and he was early apprenticed

as a weaver.

In 1807, he was pressed into the navy, and served about five years on board the Magnificent, at the end of which he returned home, and after working some time at his trade, he set up a school in Kilmarnock. Having