just as some of the poems in the second and third volumes of this series might possibly be called ballads and included here. The affair of classifying poetry, is not like a chemical analysis or a land survey. There is always room for a difference, and sometimes for a change, of opinion.

But, upon the whole, I am satisfied that these poems represent the mastery of the ballad-form and illustrate its history. Ranging from The Death of Robin Hood to Rizpah, from Young Beichan to Amy Wentworth, from Sir Patrick Spens to The Wreck of the Schooner Hesperus, they give a rich and splendid picture of the balladpoetry of love, of fairyland, of adventure, of the sea, of war, and of death and sorrow.

H. v. D.

OF LOVE

OE TÖZE

THE GAY GOSHAWK

"O WALY, waly, my gay goshawk,
Gin your feathering be sheen!
!"
"And waly, waly, my master dear,
Gin ye look pale and lean!

"O have ye tint at tournament
Your sword, or yet your spear?
Or mourn ye for the Southern lass,
Whom ye may not win near?"

"I have not tint, at tournament,

My sword, nor yet my spear;
But sair I mourn for my true-love,
Wi' mony a bitter tear.

"But weel 's me on ye, my gay goshawk, Ye can baith speak and flee;

Ye sall carry a letter to my love,
Bring an answer back to me."

But how sall I your true-love find,

Or how suld I her know?

I bear a tongue ne'er wi' her spake,
An eye that ne'er her saw."

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