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And when she turned ta corner round,
Ta black man tere she see, man,
Pe grund ta music in ta kist,

And sell him for pawbee, man; And aye she'll grund, and grund, and grund,

And turn her mill about, man,
Pe strange! she will put nothing in,
Yet aye teuk music out, man.

And when she'll saw ta people's walk
In crowds alang ta street, man,
She'll wonder whar tey a' got spoons
To sup teir pick o meat, man;
For in ta place whar she was porn,
And tat right far awa, man,
Ta teil a spoon in a' ta house,
But only ane or twa, man.

She glower to see ta mattams, too,

Wi' plack clout on teir face, man, Tey surely tid some graceless teed,

Pe in sic black discrace, man; Or else what for tey'll hing ta clout Owre prow, and cheek, and chin, man, If no for shame to show teir face, For some ungodly sin, man?

Pe strange to see ta wee bit kirn

Pe jaw the waters out, man,
And ne'er rin dry, though she wad rin
A' tay, like mountain spout, man:
Pe stranger far to see ta lamps,

Like spunkies in a raw, man,
A' pruntin' pright for want o' oil,
And teil a wick ava, man.

Ta Glasgow folk be unco folk,

Hae tealings wi' ta teil, man,-
Wi' fire tey grund ta tait o' woo,

Wi' fire tey card ta meal, man,
Wi' fire tey spin, wi' fire tey weave,
Wi' fire do ilka turn, man;
Na, some of tem will eat ta fire,
And no him's pelly purn, man.
Wi' fire tey mak' ta coach be rin,

Upon ta railman's raw, man,
Nainsel will saw him teuk ta road,
An' teil a horse to traw, man;
Anither coach to Paisley rin,

Tey'll call him Lauchie's motion, But oich she was plawn a' to bits, By rascal rogue M'Splosion.

Wi' fire tey mak' ta vessels rin

Upon ta river Clyde, man, She saw't hersel, as sure's a gun, As she stood on ta side, man:

But gin you'll no pelieve her word, Gang to ta Proomielaw, man, You'll saw ta ship wi' twa mill-wheels Pe grund ta water sma', man.

Oich! sic a toun as Glasgow toun,
She never see pefore, man,
Te houses tere pe mile and mair,

Wi' names 'pon ilka toor, man. An' in teir muckle windows tere, She'll saw't, sure's teath, for sale, man, Praw shentlemans pe want ta head, An' leddies want ta tail, man.

She wonders what ta peoples do,

Wi' a' ta praw things tere, man, Gie her ta prose, ta kilt. an' hose, For tem she wadna care, man. And aye gie her ta pickle sneesh,

And wee drap barley pree, man, For a' ta praws in Glasgow toun, She no gie paw-prown-pee, man.

BEHAVE YOURSEL' BEFORE FOLK.

Behave yoursel' before folk, Behave yoursel' before folk, And dinna be sae rude to me, As kiss me sae before folk.

It wadna gie me meikle pain,

Gin we were seen and heard by nane,
To tak' a kiss, or grant you ane,
But, guidsake! no before folk.
Behave yoursel' before folk,
Behave yoursel' before folk,
Whate'er you do when out o' view,
Be cautious aye before folk.

Consider, lad, how folk will crack,
And what a great affair they'll mak'
O' naething but a simple smack,

That's gi'en or ta'en before folk.
Behave yoursel' before folk,
Behave yoursel' before folk,
Nor gi'e the tongue o' auld or young,
Occasion to come o'er folk.

It's no through hatred o' a kiss
That I sae plainly tell you this;
But, losh! I tak' it sair amiss
To be sac teazed before folk.

Behave yoursel' before folk,
Behave yoursel' before folk;
When we're our lane ye may tak' ane,
But fient a ane before folk.

I'm sure wi' you I've been as free
As ony modest lass should be;
But yet it doesna do to see

Sic freedom used before folk.
Behave yoursel' before folk,
Behave yoursel' before folk,
I'll ne'er submit again to it-

So mind you that—before folk.

Ye tell me that my face is fair;
It may be sae-I dinna care—
But ne'er again gar't blush sae sair
As ye ha'e done before folk.

Behave yoursel' before folk,
Behave yoursel' before folk;

Nor heat my cheeks wi' your mad freaks,
But aye be douce before folk.

'Ye tell me that my lips are sweet,
Sic tales, I doubt, are a' deceit;
At ony rate, it's hardly meet

To pree their sweets before folk.
Behave yoursel' before folk,
Behave yoursel' before folk;

Gin that's the case, there's time and
place,

But surely no before folk.

But gin you really do insist
That I should suffer to be kiss'd,
Gae, get a license frae the priest,
And mak' me yours before folk.
Behave yoursel' before folk,
Behave yoursel' before folk,

And when we're ane, baith flesh and
bane,

Ye may tak' ten-before folk.

THE ANSWER.

Can I behave, can I behave,
Can I behave before folk,
When, wily elf, your sleeky self,
Gars me gang gyte before folk?

In a' ye do, in a' ye say,

Ye've sic a pawkie, coaxing way,
That my poor wits ye lead astray,
An' ding me doilt before folk!
Can I behave, &c.,
Can I behave, &c.;
While ye ensnare, can I forbear
To kiss you, though before folk?

Can I behold that dimpling cheek,
Whar love 'mang sunny smiles might
beek,

Yet, howlet-like, my e'e-lids steek,

An' shun sic light, before folk?

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How calm the eve! how blest the hour!
How soft the sylvan scene!
How fit to meet thee, lovely flower,

Sweet Bet of Aberdeen!

Now let us wander through the broom,

And o'er the flowery lea;

While simmer wafts her rich perfume
Frae yonder hawthorn tree:
There on yon mossy bank we'll rest,

Where we've sae aften been,
Clasp'd to each other's throbbing breast,
Sweet Bet of Aberdeen.

How sweet to view that face so meek,

That dark expressive eye;
To kiss that lovely blushing cheek,
Those lips of coral dye;

But oh! to hear thy seraph strains,

Thy maiden sighs between,

Makes rapture thrill through all my veins, Sweet Bet of Aberdeen.

Oh! what to us is wealth or rank?

Or what is pomp or power? More dear this velvet mossy bank, This blest ecstatic hour: I'd covet not the monarch's throne, Nor diamond-studded queen, While blest wi' thee, and thee alone, Sweet Bet of Aberdeen.

ROBIN TAMSON.

My mither men't my auld breeks,
An' wow! but they were duddy,
And sent me to get Mally shod

At Robin Tamson's smiddy;
The smiddy stands beside the burn
That wimples through the clachan,-
I never yet gae by the door

But aye I fa' a-laughin!

For Robin was a walthy carle,

And had ae bonnie dochter,
Yet ne'er wad let her tak' a man,
Though mony lads had sought her;
And what think ye o' my exploit?
The time our mare was shocing
I slippit up beside the lass,
An' briskly fell a-wooing.

An' aye she e'ed my auld breeks
The time that we sat crackin';
Quo' I, my lass, ne'er mind the clouts,
I've new anes for the makin';
But gin you'll just come hame wi' me,
An' lea' the carle your father,
Ye'se get my breeks to keep in trim,
Mysel' an' a' thegither.

Deed, lad, quo' she, your offer's fair,
I really think I'll tak' it,

Sae gang awa', get out the mare,

We'll baith slip on the back o't; For gin I wait my father's time,

I'll wait till I be fifty;

But na, I'll marry in my prime,
An' mak' a wife most thrifty.
Wow! Robin was an angry man
At tyning o' his dochter,
Through a' the kintra-side he ran,
An' far an' near he sought her;
But when he cam' to our fire-end,
An' fand us baith thegither,
Quo' I, gudeman, I've ta'en your bairn,
An' ye may tak' my mither.

Auld Robin girn'd, an' sheuk his pow,

Guid sooth! quo' he, you're merry; But I'll just tak' ye at your word,

An' end this hurry-burry;

So Robin an' our auld wife

Agreed to creep thegither; Now I hae Robin Tamson's pet, An' Robin has my mither.

ALLAN CUNNINGHAM.

BORN 1784-DIED 1842.

ALLAN CUNNINGHAM, who ranks next to Burns and Hogg as a writer of Scottish song, was descended from a long line of ancestors who were lords of that district of Ayrshire

which still bears their name, until one of them lost the patrimonial estate by siding with Montrose during the wars of the Commonwealth.

Allan was born at Blackwood, near

Dumfries, December 7, 1784. He was the Allan's brother Thomas, and his friend fourth son of John Cunningham, a shrewd, James Hogg, being contributors to the Scots upright, and intelligent man, and Elizabeth | Magazine, he was led to offer some poetical Harley, a lady of elegant personal accomplish- pieces to that periodical, which were at once ments and good family. After receiving an accepted and published. When Cromek visited ordinary education in the English branches at a Dumfries in search of materials for his Reliques school conducted by an enthusiastic Cameron- of Burns young Cunningham was pointed out ian, Allan was apprenticed to his eldest brother to him as one who could aid him in the work, James as a stone-mason; and he still continued and the London engraver advised him to colto enjoy the benefit of his father's instruc- lect the minstrelsy of Nithsdale and Galloway. tions, whom he describes as possessing "a warm Soon after his return home he received from heart, lively fancy, benevolent humour, and Cunningham contributions of old songs which pleasant happy wit." Allan appears also, from greatly delighted him, and he strongly recomthe multifarious knowledge which his earliest mended the young poet to come to London. productions betoken, to have been at this time Allan followed his advice, and was intrusted a careful reader of every book that came with editing the volume which appeared in within his reach. He commenced the writing 1810, entitled Cromek's Remains of Nithsdale of poetry at a very early age, having been and Galloway Song. But the best of these, inspired by the numerous songs and ballads and especially the " Mermaid of Galloway," with which his native district of Nithsdale were the production of Cunningham's own pen, is stored. In 1790 his father became land- a fact which the sagacity of the Ettrick Shepsteward to Mr. Millar of Dalswinton, and as herd and Professor Wilson soon detected and Burns' farm of Ellisland was on the opposite demonstrated, very much to the advantage of side of the river Nith the young lad had oppor- the young poet. Cromek did not survive to tunities of meeting the distinguished poet, learn the imposition which had been practised whose appearance and habits left an indelible upon him. After the appearance of this work impression on his mind. At the age of eigh- Cunningham was employed writing for the teen he made the acquaintance of the Ettrick London press, but this proving a precarious Shepherd, who in his Reminiscences of Former source of income he returned to his original Days gives a most interesting account of their vocation, obtaining an engagement in the first meeting. Hogg afterwards visited the establishment of Sir Francis Chantrey, over Cunninghams at Dalswinton, and was greatly which he soon became the superintendent. He impressed with Allan's genius. In later days retained this congenial position, where he was the Shepherd sung his praise as a skilful Scot- brought in contact with men of genius-artists, tish poet in the "Queen's Wake:"authors, soldiers, and statesmen-up to the date of his death, a period of nearly thirty years. His warm heart, his honest, upright, and independent character, attracted the affectionate esteem and respect of all who enjoyed the acquaintance of "honest Allan," as Sir Walter Scott commonly called him.

"Of the old elm his harp was made,
That bent o'er Cluden's loneliest shade;
No gilded sculpture round her flamed,
For his own hand that harp had franied,
In stolen hours, when, labour done,
He strayed to view the parting sun.

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That harp could make the matron stare,
Bristle the peasant's hoary hair,
Make patriot-breasts with ardour glow,
And warrior pant to meet the foe;
And long by Nith the maidens young
Shall chant the strains their minstrel sung.
At ewe-bucht, or at evening fold,
When resting on the daisied wold,
Combing their locks of waving gold,
Oft the fair group, enrapt, shall name
Their lost, their darling Cunninghame;
His was a song beloved in youth,
A tale of weir, a tale of truth."

Although faithfully devoted to business, being not unfrequently occupied at the studio twelve hours a day, Cunningham soon became favourably known as a poet and man of letters. In 1813 he gave to the world a volume of lyrics entitled Songs chiefly in the Rural Language of Scotland, followed in 1822 by "Sir Marmaduke Maxwell," a dramatic poem founded on Border story and superstition. Sir Walter Scott, to whom the author had sent the MS. of this work for perusal, considered it

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look of anxiety, "But there will be no room for you." 'Room for me!" cried Allan Cunningham; "I would not lie like a toad in a stone, or in a place strong enough for another to covet. Oh! no; let me lie where the green grass and the daisies grow, waving under the winds of the blue heaven." The wish of both was satisfied, for Chantrey reposes under his mausoleum of granite, and Cunningham in the picturesque cemetery of Kensall Green. The artist by his will left the poet a legacy of £2000, but the constitution of the latter was so prematurely exhausted that he lived only a year after his employer. He was seized with an apoplectic attack, and died October 29, 1842, in the fifty-seventh year of his age. He left a widow and five children, one of whom, Peter Cunningham, was well and favourably known by his agreeable contributions to the current iiterature of the day. In 1847 he published an edition of his father's poems and songs, and in 1874 a life of Cunningham appeared from the pen of the Rev. D. Hogg.

a beautiful dramatic poem rather than a play, and therefore better fitted for the closet than the stage. His next publication was two volumes of Traditional Tales, which he had contributed to Blackwood's and the London Magazines from 1819 to 1824. This was followed in 1825 by his valuable work the Songs of Scotland, Ancient and Modern, with an Introduction and Notes, in four volumes. Paul Jones, a romance in three volumes, appeared in 1826; and a second, also in three volumes, entitled Sir Michael Scott was published in 1828. "The Maid of Elvar," an epic poem in twelve parts written in the Spenserian stanza, followed. In 1833 the most popular of his prose works, Lives of the Most Eminent British Painters, Sculptors, and Architects, begun in 1829, was completed in six volumes. In 1834 his well-known edition of Burns, to which he prefixed a life of the poet and enriched with new anecdotes and information, was published, and met with most gratifying success. 1836 he published Lord Roldan, a romance, like its predecessors, somewhat diffuse and improbable. Cunningham, in addition to the works enumerated, was a contributor to the London Athenæum, the author of a series of prose descriptions to accompany Major's Cabinet Gallery of Pictures, a "History of the Fine Arts" for the Popular Encyclopedia, some contributions to Pilkington's Painters, and a memoir of James Thomson for an illustrated edition of The Seasons. His last lite-chaste and elegant in style, graceful in expres

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In

rary work was a Life of Sir David Wilkie.
Cunningham, who knew the painter well,"
says his biographer, "and loved him dearly as
a congenial Scottish spirit, found in this pro-
duction the last of his literary efforts, as he
finished its final corrections only two days before
he died." At the same time he had made con-
siderable progress in an extended edition of
Johnson's Lives of the Poets, and a life of
Chantrey was also expected from his pen; but
before these could be accomplished both poet
and sculptor, after a close union of twenty-
nine years, had ended their labours and
bequeathed their memorial to other hands.
The last days of Chantrey were spent in draw-
ing the tomb in which he wished to be buried
in the churchyard of Norton in Derbyshire,
the place of his nativity; and while showing
the plans to his assistant he observed with a,

Sir Walter Scott said of one of the songs of this tender and perhaps the most pathetic of all the Scottish minstrels, that "it was equal to Burns;" and on another occasion remarked, "It's Hame and it's Hame' and 'A wet Sheet and a flowing Sea' are among the best songs going." An esteemed friend, Mrs. S. C. Hall, writes of Cunningham's ballads and lyrical pieces, that "they are exquisite in feeling,

sion, and natural in conception; they will bear the strictest and most critical inspection of those who consider elaborate finish to be, at least, the second requisite of the writers of song." The Ettrick Shepherd, after recounting his first meeting with Cunningham, says, "I never missed an opportunity of meeting with Allan when it was in my power to do so. I was astonished at the luxuriousness of his fancy. It was boundless, but it was the luxury of a rich garden overrun with rampant weeds. He was likewise then a great mannerist in expression, and no man could mistake his verses for those of any other man. I remember seeing some imitations of Ossian by him, which I thought exceedingly good; and it struck me that that style of composition was peculiarly fitted for his vast and fervent ima gination." His "style of poetry is greatly

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