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. 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 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, | contributions, and were after wards puband in his sixth year heard Burns read | lished in two vols. In 1825, appeared "Tam o'Shanter" in his father's his collection of The Songs of Scotland: house. 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 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 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- First ye maun dress your children fair, That I span yesterday; Else they'll all lay away. O he did dress his children fair, 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 a' gade wrang, and nought gade right; Then up he ran to the head o' the knowe John Grumlie's wife cam hame at e'en, 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, Away the good ship flies, and leaves O for a soft and gentle wind! And white waves heaving high: 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 The hawket crummie loot down nae milk; While the hollow oak our palace is, He kirned, nor butter gat; Our heritage the sea. THE WEE, WEE GERMAN LAIRDIE. Wha the deil hae we got for a King, 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, But the thristle tap will jag his thumbs, Thou wee, wee German lairdie; An' if a stock ye daur to pu', Our hills are steep, our glens are deep, Thou wee, wee German lairdie ! DAVID WEBSTER. 1787-1837 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 Honest men to begin to the thieving. '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. The smugglers whiles cam' wi' their pocks, I had lang been accustomed to drink, Said aye to me, Tak' it, man, tak' it. But the warst thing I did in my life, 'Od, I tauld a bit bodie in Fife A' my tale, and he made a bit sang o't. But for singin' I ne'er gat the knack o't; Now, miller and a' as I am, This far I can see through the matter; Mair greedy than me o' the muter. Then hey for the mill, &c. WILLIAM THO M. 1789-1848. first published poem, The Blind Boy's Pranks," to the Aberdeen Herald, and he is hence styled the "Inverury Poet." But his "Mitherless Bairn," the gem of his writings, was composed in Aberdeen. WILLIAM THOM was born in Aber- | While residing in Inverury, he sent his deen, in 1789. His father dying while he was an infant, his education was closed at the age of ten, when he entered a cotton-weaving factory, in which he continued for twenty years. After this heled a wandering life, and with his wife and children endured many hardships. Several efforts to improve his social But morning brings clutches a' reckless and stern, That lo'e na' the locks o' the mitherless bairn. condition failed in placing him in comfortable circumstances; and after two visits to London, where he was well received, he returned to Scotland, and died at Dundee in 1848. A col-Yon sister, that sang o'er his saftly-rocked lection of his poems was published in 1844, under the title of Rhymes and Recollections of a Handloom Weaver. bed, Now rests in the mools where her mammie is laid; The father toils sair, their wee bannock to airn, An' kens na the wrangs o' his mitherless bairn. Her spirit that passed in yon hour o❜ his birth, Still watches his wearisome wanderings on earth; Recording in heaven the blessings they earn, Wha couthilie deal wi' the mitherless bairn! Oh! speak him na harshly; he trembles the while, He bends to your bidding, an' blesses your smile; In their dark hour o' anguish, the heartless shall learn O' hands that wont kindly to kame his That God deals the blow for the mitherdark hair; less bairn! |