ged 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.

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