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incentives to industry offer themselves in this island, crying aloud to the inhabitants for work? Roads to be repaired, rivers made navigable, fisheries on the coasts, mines to be wrought, plantations to be raised, manufactories improved, and, above all, lands to be tilled and sowed with all sorts of grain.

When so many circumstances provoke and animate your people to labour, when their private wants and the necessities of the public, when the laws, the magistrates, and the very country calls upon them, you cannot think it becomes you alone to be silent, or hindermost in every project for promoting the public good. Why should you, whose influence is greatest, be least active? why should you, whose words are most likely to prevail, say least for the common cause?

305.-SONGS.

[We have devoted several 'Half-Hours' to our song-writers. Many other songs, especially of the greatest of song-writers, Burns, will be found scattered through these volumes, in articles which are grouped from various authors. We leave this branch of composition with extracts from a Scotch and an English poet, who have added many fresh flowers to our lyric wreath.

The Poems and Songs' of ALLAN CUNNINGHAM have been collected into a pretty pocket volume by his accomplished son, Mr. Peter Cunningham. In a modest and graceful introduction—a fitting tribute to the memory of such a father-Mr. P. Cunningham gives the following interesting account of the circumstances that called forth the genius of the young stonemason to attempt some of the best imitations of the Border Minstrelsy that have been produced. Scott justly called some of these "beautiful." The 'Wet Sheet and a flowing Sea' is amongst the most perfect of our national lyrics.

"Mr. R. H. CROMEK, by profession an engraver, visited Dumfries in the summer of 1809, accompanied by Mr. J. Stothard, the celebrated painter. The object of their joint visit was the collection of materials and drawings for an enlarged and illustrated edition of the works of Burns. Mr. Cromek had published, a few years before, a supplemental volume to Currie's Edition of the Works, and, pleased with the success of the 'Reliques' (so the volume was entitled), was preparing for publication, at the same time, a Select Collection of Scottish Songs, with the notes and memoranda of Burns, and such additional materials as his own industry could bring together.

"Mr. Cromek brought a letter of introduction to my father from Mrs. Fletcher, of Edinburgh, herself a poetess, and the friend of Sir Walter Scott and Campbell. A similarity of pursuits strengthened their acquaintance; their talk was all about Burns, the old Border Ballads, and the Jacobite Songs of the '15 and '45. Cromek found his young friend, then a stonemason earning eighteen shillings a week, well versed in the poetry of his country, with a taste naturally good, and an extent of reading, for one in his condition, really surprising. Stothard, who had a fine feeling for poetry, was equally astonished.

"In one of their conversations on modern Scottish song, Cromek made the discovery that the Dumfries mason, on eighteen shillings a week, was himself a poet. Mrs. Fletcher may have told him as much, but I never heard that she did; this, however, is immaterial. Cromek, in consequence of this discovery, asked to see some of his effusions.' They were shown to him; and at their next meeting he observed, as I have heard my father tell with great good humour, imitating Cromek's manner all the while,- Why, sir, your verses are well, very well; but no one should try to write songs after Robert Burns unless he could either write like him or some of the old minstrels.' The disappointed poet nodded assent, changed the subject of conversation, and talked about the old songs and fragments of songs still to be picked up among the peasantry of Nithsdale. Gad, sir!' said Cromek; if we could but make a volume. Gad, sir! see what Percy has done, and Ritson, and Mr. Scott more recently with his Border Minstrelsy.' The idea of a volume of imitations passed upon Cromek as genuine remains flashed across the poet's mind in a moment, and he undertook at once to put down what he knew, and set about collecting all that could be picked up in N'thsdale and Galloway."]

THOU HAST SWORN BY THY GOD, MY JEANIE.

Thou hast sworn by thy God, my Jeanie,

By that pretty white hand o' thine,
And by a' the lowing stars in heaven,
That thou wad aye be mine!

And I hae sworn by my God, my Jeanie,
And by that kind heart o' thine,

By a' the stars sown thick owre heaven,
That thou shalt aye be mine!

Then foul fa' the hands that wad loose sic bands,
An' the heart that wad part sic love;
But there's nae hand can loose the band,
Save the finger o' God above.

Tho' the wee, wee cot maun be my bield,
An' my claithing e'er sae mean,

I wad lap me up rich i' the faulds o' love,
Heaven's armfu' o' my Jean!

Her white arm would be a pillow to me,

Fu' safter than the down,

An Love wad winnow owre us his kind, kind wings,

An' sweetly I'd sleep an' soun'.

Come here to me, thou lass o' my love,

Come here and kneel wi' me;

The morning is fu' o' the presence o' God,

An' I canna pray but thee.

The morn-wind is sweet 'mang the beds o' new flowers,

The wee birds sing kindly an' hie,

Our gudeman leans owre the kail-yard dyke,

An' a blythe auld body is he.

The Book maun be taen when the carle comes hame,

Wi' the holie psalmodie,

And thou maun speak o' me to thy God,

And I will speak o' thee!

It 's HAME, AND It 's HAME.

It's hame, and it's hame, hame fain wad I be,

An' it's hame, hame, hame, to my ain countree !

When the flower is i' the bud and the leaf is on the tree,
The lark shall sing me hame in my ain countree;

It's hame, and it's hame, hame fain wad I be,
An' it 's hame, hame, hame, to my ain countree !

The green leaf o' loyaltie's beginning for to fa',
The bonnie white rose it is withering an' a';
But I'll water 't wi' the blude of usurping tyrannie,
An' green it will grow in my ain countree.
It 's hame, and it 's hame, hame fain wad I be,
An' it 's hame, hame, hame, to my ain countree!

There's naught now frae ruin my country can save,
But the keys o' kind heaven to open the grave,
That a' the noble martyrs that died for loyaltie,
May rise again and fight for their ain countree.
It's hame, and it's hame, hame fain wad I be,
An' it's hame, hame, Lame, to my ain countree!
The great now are gane, a' who ventured to save,
The new grass is springing on the tap o' their grave;
But the sun thro' the mirk blinks blythe in my ee:
'T'll shine on ye yet in your ain countree.
It's hame, and it 's hame, hame fain wad I be,
An' it 's hame, hame, hame, to my ain countree!

A WET SHEET AND A FLOWING SEA.

A wet sheet and a flowing sea,

A wind that follows fast,
And fills the white and rustling sail,

And bends the gallant mast;
And bends the gallant mast, my boys,

While, like the eagle free,
Away the good ship flies, and leaves

Old England on the lee.

Oh, for a soft and gentle wind!

I heard a fair one cry;

But give to me the snoring breeze,
And white waves heaving high;

And white waves heaving high, my boys
The good ship tight and free-
The world of waters is our home,
And merry men are we.

There 's tempest in yon horned 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 flashing free-
While the hollow oak our palace is,
Our heritage the sea.

[UNDER the assumed name of Barry Cornwall, Mr. PROCTER has written many short Poems, so graceful and elegant that the pleasure which they give is mingled with the regret that he, like many other workers in this every-day life, should have, in great part, bidden 'Farewell to his Muse.' Whilst the Scotch, from the days of Allan Ramsay, have been carrying away most of the honours of song-writers, Mr. Procter has made a vigorous effort to maintain our good old English reputation in this walk. Thomas Moore is, of course, an exception to the general superiority of those who have cultivated the Doric language of melody. His lyrics are universally known; and we, therefore, close our selection with two songs from a charming volume,- English Songs, and other small Poems,' by Barry Cornwall.]

THE SEA.

The sea! the sea! the open sea!
The blue, the fresh, the ever free!
Without a mark, without a bound,
It runneth the earth's wide regions' round;
It plays with the clouds; it mocks the
skies;

Or like a cradled creature lies.

I'm on the sea! I'm on the sea!
I am where I would ever be;

If a storm should come and awake the
deep,

What matter? I shall ride and sleep.
I love (oh! how I love) to ride
On the fierce foaming bursting tide,
When every mad wave drowns the moon,
Or whistles aloft his tempest tune,
And tells how goeth the world below,
And why the south-west blasts do blow.

With the blue above, and the blue below, I never was on the dull tame shore,

And silence wheresoe'er I go ;

But I loved the great sea more and more,

And backwards flew to her billowy breast,
Like a bird that seeketh its mother's
nest;

And a mother she was, and is to me;
For I was born on the open sea !

The waves were white, and red the morn,
In the noisy hour when I was born
And the whale it whistled, the porpoise
rolled,

And never was heard such an outory wild
As welcomed to life the ocean child!
I've lived since then, in calm and strife,
Full fifty summers a sailor's life,
With wealth to spend and a power to

range,

But never have sought, nor sighed for change;

And Death, whenever he come to me,

And the dolphins bared their backs of gold; Shall come on the wild unbounded sea!

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Ir is a hard and nice subject for a man to write of himself; it grates his own heart to say anything of disparagement, and the reader's ears to hear anything of praise for him. There is no danger from me of offending him in this kind; neither my mind, nor my body, nor my fortune, allow me any materials for that vanity. It is sufficient, for my own contentment, that they have preserved me from being scandalous, or remarkable on the defective side. But, besides that, I shall here speak of myself only in relation to the subject of these precedent discourses, and shall be likelier thereby to fall into the contempt, than rise up to the estimation of most

people. As far as my memory can return back into my past life, before I knew, or was capable of guessing, what the world, or glories, or business of it were, the natural affections of my soul gave a secret bent of aversion from them as some plants are said to turn away from others, by an antipathy imperceptible to themselves, and inscrutable to man's understanding. Even when I was a very young boy at school, instead of running about on holidays, and playing with my fellows, I was wont to steal from them, and walk into the fields, either alone with a book, or with some one companion, if I could find any of the same temper. I was then, too, so much an enemy to constraint, that my masters could never prevail on me, by any persuasions or encouragements, to learn, without book, the common rules of grammar, in which they dispensed with me alone, because they found I made a shift to do the usual exercise out of my own reading and observation. That I was then of the same mind as I am now (which I confess I wonder at myself), may appear at the latter end of an ode, which I made when I was but thirteen years old, and which was then printed, with many other verses. The beginning of it is boyish; but of this part which I here set down (if a very little were corrected), I should hardly now be much ashamed.

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Thus would I double my life's fading space,

For he that runs it well twice runs his race.
And in this true delight,

These unbought sports, that happy state,
I would not fear nor wish my fate,

But boldly say each night,

To-morrow let my sun his beams display,

Or in clouds hide them; I have lived to-day.

You may see by it I was even then acquainted with the poets (for the conclusion is taken out of Horace): and perhaps it was the immature and immoderate love of them, which stamped first, or rather engraved the characters in me. They were like letters cut in the bark of a young tree, which, with the tree, still grow proportionably. But, how this love came to be produced in me so early, is a hard question: I believe I can tell the particular little chance that filled my head first with such chimes of verse, as have never since left ringing there: for I remember, when

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