From her sweet cot upon the moor, Our plighted vows to heaven are flown: Truth made me welcome at her door, And rosy Hannah is my own. ["Remains." 1824.] TO HIS WIFE. I rise, dear Mary, from the soundest rest, To share my heart's ungovernable joy, And keep the birthday of our poor lame boy. Ah! that's a tender string! Yet since I find That scenes like these can soothe the harassed mind, The far-resounding gate; the kite's shrill scream ; It would delight thee too, wert thou but here: But vain the wish! Mary, thy sighs forbear, Nor grudge the pleasures which thou canst not share: And I'll leave hills, and dales, and woods for thee. WHITTLEBURY FOREST, Sept. 16, 1804. ALLAN CUNNINGHAM. 1784-1842. [“Remains of Nithsdale and Galloway Song.” 1810.] BONNIE LADY ANN. THERE'S kames o' honey 'tween my luve's lips, An' gold amang her hair, Her breasts are lapt in a holie veil, Nae mortal een look there. What lips dare kiss, or what hand dare touch, The honey lips, the creamy palm, She kisses the lips o' her bonnie red rose, Wat wi' the blobs o' dew; But nae gentle lip, nor semple lip, Maun touch her Lady mou. But a broider'd belt, wi' a buckle o' gold, 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 sits she in the midst, Men's longing een to feed. She waves the ringlets frae her cheek, Wi' her milky, milky han', An' her cheeks seem touch'd wi' the finger o' God, The morning cloud is tassell'd wi' gold, An' on the mantle which my luve wears Her bonnie eebrow's a holie arch Cast by no earthlie han'; An' the breath o' Heaven's atween the lips O' my bonnie Lady Ann! I am her father's gardener lad, An' poor, poor is my fa'; My auld mither gets my sair-won fee, Wi' fatherless bairnies twa. My een are bauld, they dwall on a place But I water, and tend, and kiss the flowers THE POET'S BRIDAL-DAY SONG. "This rural beauty, who caused such terrible devastation, and who, it is said, first made a poet of her lover, became afterwards his wife; and in her matronly character, she inspired that beautiful little effusion of conjugal tenderness, 'THE POET'S Bridal SONG.' When first published, it was almost universally copied, and committed to memory; and Allan Cunningham may not only boast that he has woven a wreath to 'grace his Jean,' 'While rivers flow and woods are green,' but that he has given the sweet wife, seated among her children in sedate and matronly loveliness, an interest even beyond that which belongs to the young girl he has described with raven locks and cheeks of cream, driving rustic admirers to despair, or lingering with her love at eve, 'Amid the falling dew When looks were fond, and words were few!' Such is the charm of affection, and truth, and moral feeling, carried straight into the heart by poetry!" MRS. JAMESON'S LOVES OF THE POETS. O, my love's like the steadfast sun, Can make my heart or fancy flee One moment, my sweet wife, from thee. Even while I muse, I see thee sit Yet my heart leaps as fond for thee As when, beneath Arbigland tree, We stayed and wooed, and thought the moon Set on the sea an hour too soon; Or lingered 'mid the falling dew, When looks were fond and words were few. Though I see smiling at thy feet Five sons and ae fair daughter sweet; And time, and care, and birth-time woes Have dimmed thine eye, and touched thy rose, To thee, and thoughts of thee, belong All that charms me of tale or song; When words come down like dews unsought, With gleams of deep enthusiast thought, And fancy in her heaven flies free, They come, my love, they come from thee. O, when more thought we gave of old |