mas, ye maun hold your tongue,
Whatever ye may hear or see;
For if ye speak word in Elfin land
Ye'll ne'er get back to your ain countrie."

O they rade on and farther on,
And they waded through rivers aboon the knee,
And they saw neither the sun nor moon,
But they heard the roaring of the sea.

It was mirk mirk night, and there was nae stern-light,
And they waded through red blude to the knee,
For a' the blude that's shed on earth
Rins through the springs o' that countrie."

The late ingenious Mr Cromek was not, so far as we know, physically
blind, but most assuredly there hung a heavy cloud over his mental
light, since he could not discern the burning stamp of original genius
in the fragments which were communicated to him by Allan Cunningham, and
which he published under the title of "Remains of Nithsdale and Galloway
Song." Poor Allan Cunningham has passed away from amongst us, not
unknown indeed, nor unhonoured, but without having received that full
meed of praise and fame which was justly his due. For Allan, though a
most industrious man, was far too careless of his poetic reputation, and
never could be prevailed on to collect together those scattered snatches
of song, which he had sown with too liberal a hand in detached and
distant places. But the service which he would not render to himself,
has been performed by filial piety; and we now congratulate the public
on their possessing, in a cheap and elegant form, the works of the most
tender and pathetic of the Scottish Minstrels who have arisen since the
death of Burns. If this little book does not become a favourite, and if
it does not speedily make its way, not only into every library, but into
every farm-steading of Scotland--if the poems of Allan Cunningham do
not become as familiar to the lips, and as dear to the hearts, of our
shepherds and our peasantry, as those of his great predecessor--then we
shall be constrained to believe that the age is indeed an iron one, that
the heart of our beloved country has at last grown cold, and its
impulses less fervid than of yore. It is now nearly thirty years ago--a
long, long time to us--since Cromek's collection of Remains was noticed
in this Magazine. Cunningham was then in the flush and zenith of his
genius, with years, as we had fondly hoped, of fame before him, and all
the early difficulties which beset the path of a youthful poet overcome.
He was then ur