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So virtue blooms, brought forth amid
the storms

Of chill adversity; in some lone walk
Of life she rears her head,
Obscure and unobserved;

While every bleaching breeze that on
her blows

Chastens her spotless purity of breast,
And hardens her to bear
Serene the ills of life.

ALLAN CUNNINGHAM,

1784-1842.

[BORN of comparatively humble parentage in Dumfriesshire. Began life as a stone-mason, but his early literary ability attracted the attention of the public and won for him the esteem and friendship of men of genius. In 1810 he obtained a position of trust in the Studio of Chantrey, a London sculptor, which afforded him an opportunity to employ his active pen and for intercourse with men of literary tastes. His reputation rests chiefly upon his smaller pieces, which are very natural and intensely Scotch, vigorous and even splendid in their higher moods, affectingly pathetic in their softer strains. His novels, Paul Jones, etc., are full of glittering description and exaggerated and unnatural character.]

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But nae gentle lip nor simple lip
Maun touch her Ladie mou';

But a broidered belt wi' a buckle o' gowd

Her jimpy waist maun span;

O she's an armfu' fit for heaven,
My bonnie Lady Ann!

Her bower casement is latticed wi' flowers,

Tied up wi' silver thread,
An' comely she sits in the midst,

Men's longing een to feed.

She waves the ringlets frae her cheeks, Wi' her milky milky han',

An' her cheeks seem touched wi' the finger o' God;

My bonnie Lady Ann!

The morning cloud is tassel'd wi' gowd,
Like my luve's broider'd cap,
An' on the mantle which my luve wears
Are monie a gowden drap.
Her bonnie ee bree's a holie arch,

Cast by no earthly han',

An' the breath o' God's atween the lips
O' my bonnie Lady Ann!

I am her father's gardener lad,
And poor poor is my fa';

My auld mither gets my wee wee fee,
Wi' fatherless bairnies twa.
My Lady comes, my Lady goes

Wi' a fu' an' kindly han';

O the blessing o' God maun mix wi' my luve,

An' fa' on Lady Ann!

SHE'S GONE TO DWELL IN
HEAVEN.

SHE'S gone to dwell in heaven, my lassie,

She's gone to dwell in heaven :
Ye're owre pure, quo' the voice o' God,
For dwelling 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' angels'
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'.

Low there thou lies, my lassie,
Low 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 itself wi' thee.

I looked on thy death-cold face, my lassie,

I looked on thy death-cold face; Thou seemed a lily new cut i' the bud, An' fading in its place.

I looked on thy death-shut eye, my lassie,

I looked on thy death-shut eye; An' a lovelier light in the brow of heaven Fell time shall ne'er destroy.

Thy lips were ruddy and calm, my lassie,

Thy lips were ruddy and calm; But gone was the holy breath o' heaven To sing the evening psalm.

There's nought but dust now mine, lassie,

There's nought but dust now mine; My soul's wi' thee i' the cauld, cauld grave,

An' why should I stay behin'?

MY NANIE O.

RED rows the Nith, 'tween bank and brae,

Mirk is the night and rainie O, Though heaven and earth should mix in storm,

I'll gang and see my Nanie O; My Nanie O, my Nanie O;

My kind and winsome Nanie O, She holds my heart in love's dear bands, And nane can do't but Nanie O.

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[BORN at Alnsford, Hampshire, Dec. 16, 1786. Published in early life three volumes of poems, and then became a successful and highly popular prose writer. Her principal works are Our Village, five vols., 1824-32. Belford Regis, 1835; Country Stories, 1850; Recollections, 1851; Atherton and other Tales, 1854. And a number of dramas of which Rienzi, 1828, was the most successful. Died Jan. 10, 1855.]

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lights

A race of slaves! He sets, and his last beam

Falls on a slave: not such as, swept along

By the full tide of power, the conqueror leads

To crimson glory and undying fame; But base ignoble slaves, slaves to a horde

Of petty tyrants, feudal despots, lords Rich in some dozen paltry villages, Strong in some hundred spearmen, only great

In that strange spell, a name. Each hour, dark fraud,

Or open rapine, or protected murder,
Cry out against them.
But this very

day,

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