John Cunningham

John Cunningham Poems

John Cunningham Biography

John Cunningham was a Dublin born playwright, poet and actor, who spent much of his life in, and according to Allan, "whose name and fame will for ever be identified with Newcastle." His parents came from a modest background of Scottish descent, but had won the lottery. Soon after, however, they went bankrupt and their social status diminished. This affected Cunningham, forcing him to leave Drogheda Grammar School after his parents' wealth was lost. Early on, the stage and acting attracted Cunningham. He wrote his first play at 17, called "Love in a mist", performed in Dublin. The play was later performed at Newcastle, where Cunningham settled, working as a member of the local travelling drama company. He also befriended the owners of the Newcastle Chronicle, and supplemented his income buy writing articles for publication. Cunningham gave his last performance in Darlington on 20 June 1773. He then returned to Newcastle, became ill, and died on 18 September 1773 at the age of 44, at his home in Union Street, Newcastle. He was buried at St John’s Churchyard.)

The Best Poem Of John Cunningham

Content

O'er moorlands and mountains, rude, barren, and bare,
As wilder'd and weary'd I roam,
A gentle young shepherdess sees my despair,
And leads me-o'er lawns-to her home,
Yellow sheaves from rich Ceres her cottage had crown'd,
Green rushes were strew'd on her floor,
Her casement sweet woodbines crept wantonly round,
And deck'd the sod seats at her door.

We sat ourselves down to a cooling repast:
Fresh fruits! and she cull'd me the best:
While, thrown from my guard by some glances she cast,
Love slily stole into my breast!
I told my soft wishes; she sweetly reply'd,
(Ye virgins, her voice was divine!)
I've rich ones rejected, and great ones deny'd,
But take me, fond shepherd-I'm thine.

Her air was so modest, her aspect so meek!
So simple, yet sweet, were her charms!
I kiss'd the ripe roses that glow'd on her cheek,
And lock'd the lov'd maid in my arms!
Now jocund together we tend a few sheep,
And if, by yon prattler, the stream,
Reclin'd on her bosom, I sink into sleep,
Her image still softens my dream.

Together we range o'er the slow-rising hills,
Delighted with pastoral views,
Or rest on the rock whence the streamlet distils,
And point out new themes for my muse.
To pomp or proud titles she ne'er did aspire,
The damsel's of humble descent;
The cottager, Peace, is well known for her fire,
And shepherds have nam'd her Content.

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