We really must find fault with Mr Peter Cunningham for calling this, and others of his father's choicest productions, "imitations of the old ballad." They are no more imitations than the finest poems of Burns, or Hogg, or Motherwell. They are, it is true, written in the Scots dialect, and they share, along with the old traditional strains, the charm of a sweet simplicity; but every one of them came direct from the heart of our beloved Allan, and are, in their way, as truly original compositions as any burst that ever yet was uttered by inspired poet under the canopy of heaven. Poor old Cromek, who knew as little about the Scottish ballads as Mr Sheldon, believed them to be ancient, and, we dare say, died in that belief. But every man here, who knew or cared about the matter, saw at once that such poems as "The Lord's Marie," or "Bonnie Lady Anne," were neither ancient nor imitated; and accordingly, by the common consent of his brethren, Allan Cunningham was at once enrolled on the list of the sweet singers of Scotland--and long and distant be the day when his name shall be forgotten on the flowery braes of Nithsdale, or the pleasant holms of Dalswinton, which in life he loved so well. The last work which we have to notice is the collected edition of Motherwell's Poems, which has just issued from the Glasgow Press, under the auspices of Mr James M'Conechy. William Motherwell must always stand very high in the list of the minor Scottish poets, and one lyric of his, "Jeanie Morrison," is as pathetic as any in the language. But of him so much has already been said in former numbers of MAGA, that we may dispense with present criticism: and we shall merely draw the attention of the lovers of the supernatural to a more terrific temptation of Saint Anthony than ever was painted by Teniers. Motherwell was a noted ghost-seer, and few could beat him in the magic circle. Witness "Elfinland Wud," which is enough to frighten, not a nursery of children, but a score of bearded callants out of their wits, if they heard it chanted, on an eerie night, in the dim forests of Glenmore. THE DEMON LADY. "Again in my chamber! Again at my bed! With thy smile sweet as sunshine, And hand cold as lead! I know thee! I know thee! Nay, start not, my sweet! These golden robes shrunk up And showed me thy feet; These golden robes shrunk up, And taffety thin, While out crept the emblems Of Death and of Sin. Bright beautiful devil! Pass, pass from me now; For the damp dew of death Gathers thick on my brow; And bind up thy girdle, Nor beauties disclose, More dazzlingly white Than the wreath-drifted snows: And away with thy kisses; My heart waxes sick, As thy red lips, like worms, Travel over my cheek!