ever subject they undertake to explain-the sound arguments by which they connect as well as support it—and the beautiful wild flowers of eloquence with which, as they proceed, they adorn every portion of the moral architecture they are constructing, form altogether an exhibition of grave interest; and yet is it not astonishing to reflect that the orators in these Councils are men whose lips and gums are—while they are speaking-black from the wild berries on which they have been subsisting who have never heard of education-never seen a town-but who, born in the secluded recesses of an almost interminable forest, have spent their lives in either following zigzaggedly the game on which they subsist through a labyrinth of trees, or in paddling their canoes across lakes, and among a congregation of such as islands I have described! They hear more distinctly-see farther-smell clearer can bear more fatigue-can subsist on less food-and have altogether fewer wants than their white brethren; and yet, while from morning till night we stand gazing at ourselves in the looking-glass of self-admiration, we consider the red Indians of America as "outside barbarians." But I have quite forgotten to be the Hansard of my own speech at the Council, which was an attempt to explain to the tribes assembled the reasons which had induced their late "Great Father" to recommend some of them to sell their lands to the Provincial Government, and to remove to the innumerable islands in the waters before us. I assured them that their titles to their present hunting-grounds remained, and ever would remain, respected and undisputed; but that, inasmuch as their white brethren had an equal right to occupy and cultivate the forest that surrounded them, the consequence inevitably would be to cut off their supply of wild game, as I have already described. In short, I stated the case as fairly as I could, and, after a long debate, succeeded in prevailing on the tribe to whom I had particularly been addressing myself to dispose of their lands on the terms I had proposed; and whether the bargain was for their weal or woe, it was, and, so long as I live, will be, a great satisfaction to me to feel that it was openly discussed and agreed to in presence of every Indian tribe with whom Her Majesty is allied; for be it always kept in mind, that while the white inhabitants of our North American colonies are the Queen's subjects, the red Indian is by solemn treaty Her Majesty's ally. 327.-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. 6 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 Nithsdale and Galloway."] THOU HAST SWORN BY THY GOD, MY JEANIE. By that pretty white hand o' thine, And I hae sworn by my God, my Jeanie, Then foul fa' the hands that wad loose sic bands, Tho' the wee, wee cot maun be my bield, I wad lap me up rich i' the faulds o' love, 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, 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, The green leaf o' loyaltie's beginning for to fa', It 's hame, and it 's hame, hame fain wad I be, There's naught now frae ruin my country can save, The great now are gane, a' who ventured to save, 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, Oh, for a soft and gentle wind! But give to me the snoring breeze, There 's tempest in yon horned moon, And lightning in yon cloud; The lightning flashing free- [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, |