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-bught, 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."

As a prose writer, Cunningham was believed by Southey to have the best style ever attained by any one born north of the Tweed, Hume only excepted. His moral qualities were well appreciated by Sir Walter Scott, who commonly spoke of him as "Honest Allan." His person was broad and powerful, and his countenance wore a fine intelligence.

SHE'S GANE TO DWALL IN HEAVEN.

SHE's gane to dwall in heaven, my lassie,
She's gane to dwall in heaven:
"Ye're owre pure," quo' the voice o' God,
"For dwalling out o' heaven!"

Oh, what 'll she do in heaven, my lassie?
Oh, what'll she do in heaven?

She'll mix her ain thoughts wi' angels' sangs,
And 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'.

Lowly there thou lies, my lassie,
Lowly 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 naught to covet ahin',
But took gudeness sel' wi' thee.

I look'd on thy death-cold face, my lassie,
I look'd on thy death-cold face;

Thou seem'd a lily new cut i' the bud,
An' fading in its place.

I look'd on thy death-shut eye, my lassie,
I look'd 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 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'?

THE LOVELY LASS OF PRESTON MILL.

THE lark had left the evening cloud,
The dew was soft, the wind was lowne,
The gentle breath amang the flowers
Scarce stirr'd the thistle's tap o' down;

The dappled swallow left the pool,
The stars were blinking owre the hill,
As I met amang the hawthorns green
The lovely lass of Preston Mill.

Her naked feet, amang the grass,

Seem'd like twa dew-gemm'd lilies fair; Her brow shone comely 'mang her locks, Dark curling owre her shoulders bare;

Her cheeks were rich wi' bloomy youth;
Her lips had words and wit at will,
And heaven seem'd looking through her een,
The lovely lass of Preston Mill.

Quo' I, "Sweet lass, will ye gang
ye gang wi' me,
Where blackcocks crow, and plovers cry?
Six hills are woolly wi' my sheep,

Six vales are lowing wi' my kye:
I have look'd lang for a weel-favour'd lass,
By Nithsdale's holmes an' mony a hill;"
She hung her head like a dew-bent rose,
The lovely lass of Preston Mill.

Quo' I, "Sweet maiden, look nae down,
But gie's a kiss, and gang wi' me:
A lovelier face, oh! never look'd up,

And the tears were drapping frae her e'e: “I hae a lad, wha's far awa',

That weel could win a woman's will;

My heart's already fu' o' love,"

Quo' the lovely lass of Preston Mill.

"Now wha is he wha could leave sic a lass, To seek for love in a far countrie?"

Her tears drapp'd down like simmer dew:
I fain wad kiss'd them frae her e'e.
I took but ane o' her comely cheek;
"For pity's sake, kind sir, be still!
My heart is fu' o' ither love,"

Quo' the lovely lass of Preston Mill.

She stretch'd to heaven her twa white hands,
And lifted up her watery e'e-

"Sae lang's my heart kens aught o' God,
Or light is gladsome to my e'e;

While woods grow green, and burns rin clear,
Till my last drap o' blood be still,

My heart shall haud nae other love,"
Quo' the lovely lass of Preston Mill.

There's comely maids on Dee's wild banks,
And Nith's romantic vale is fu' ;
By lanely Cluden's hermit stream
Dwells mony a gentle dame, I trow.
Oh, they are lights of a gladsome kind,
As ever shone on vale or hill;
But there's a light puts them a' out,
The lovely lass of Preston Mill.

GANE WERE BUT THE WINTER CAULD.

GANE were but the winter cauld,
And gane were but the snaw,
I could sleep in the wild woods,
Where primroses blaw.

Cauld's the snaw at my head,

And cauld at my feet,

And the finger o' death 's at my een,
Closing them to sleep.