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.

THE DEMON LADY.

"Again in my chamber!
Again at my bed!
With thy smi