The following Cavalier Song was first given by Motherwell as an original manuscript by Lovelace, accidentally discovered on a fly-leaf of his poems. The story found believers. They ought to have seen that the imitation, though very skilful, was too close. Lovelace was the last man in the world to have repeated his own turns of phrase.

A steede! a steede of matchless speed,
A sword of metal keene!

All else to noble heartes is drosse,
All else on earth is meane.

The neighyinge of the war-horse prowde,
The rowlinge of the drum,

The clangor of the trumpet lowde,

Be soundes from heaven that come.
And oh the thundering presse of knightes
When as their war-cryes swell,

May toll from heaven an angel brighte,
And rouse a fiend from hell.

Then mounte! then mounte brave gallants, all,
And don your helmes amaine ;

Death's couriers, Fame and Honour, call

Us to the field againe.

No shrewish teares shall fill our eye

When the sword-hilt's in our hand-
Heart-whole we'll part, and no whit sighe
For the fayrest of the land;

Let piping swaine and craven wight
Thus weep and puling crye,
Our business is like men to fight,
And hero-like to die!

JEANIE MORRISON.

I've wandered east, I've wandered west,
Through mony a weary way;
But never, never can forget

The luve o' life's young day!

The fire that's blawn on Beltane e'en
May weel be black gin Yule;
But blacker fa' awaits the heart
Where first fond love grows cule.

O dear, dear Jeanie Morrison,
The thochts o' bygane years
Still fling their shadows ow'r my path
And blind my een wi' tears:

They blind my een wi' saut, saut tears,
And sair and sick I pine,

As memory idly summons up

The blithe blinks o' langsyne.

'Twas then we luvit ilk ither weel, "Twas then we twa did part;

Sweet time! sad time! twa bairns at schule,

Twa bairns and but ae heart!

'Twas then we sat on ae laigh bink,

To leir ilk ither lear;

And tones and looks and smiles were shed, Remembered ever mair.

I wonder, Jeanie, aften yet,

When sitting on that bink,

Cheek touchin' cheek, loof locked in loof,
What our wee heads could think?

When baith bent doun ower ae braid page
Wi' ae buik on our knee,

Thy lips were on thy lesson, but
My lesson was in thee.

Oh mind

ye how we hung our heads,
How cheeks brent red wi' shame,
Whene'er the schule-weans laughin' said
We cleeked thegither hame ?
And mind ye o' the Saturdays

(The scule then skail't at noon), When we ran aff to speel the braes, The broomy braes o' June?

My head rins round and round about,
My heart flows like a sea,
As ane by ane the thochts rush back
O' scule-time and o' thee.

O mornin' life! O mornin' luve!
O lichtsome days and lang,
When hinnied hopes around our hearts
Like simmer blossoms sprang.

Oh, mind ye, luve, how oft we left
The deavin' dinsome toun,

To wander by the green burnside,
And hear its waters croon ?

The simmer leaves hung ower our heads,
The flowers burst round our feet,
And in the gloamin' o' the wood
The throssil whusslit sweet;

The throssil whusslit in the wood,
The burn sang to the trees,

And we with Nature's heart in tune
Concerted harmonies;

And, on the knowe abune the burn,
For hours thegither sat

I' the silentness o’joy, till baith
Wi' very gladness grat.

Ay, ay, dear Jeanie Morrison,

Tears trinkled doun your cheek, Like dew-beads on a rose, yet nane Had ony power to speak!

That was a time, a blessed time,

When hearts were fresh and young, When freely gushed all feelings forth Unsyllabled, unsung!

I marvel, Jeanie Morrison,
Gin I hae been to thee

As closely twined wi' earliest thochts
As ye hae been to me?

Oh! tell me gin their music fills
Thine ear as it does mine?

Oh! say gin e'er your heart grows grit Wi' dreamings o' lang syne?

I've wandered east, I've wandered west, I've borne a weary lot;

But in my wanderings, far or near,
Ye never were forget.

The fount that first burst frae this heart
Still travels on its way;

And channels deeper, as it rins,
The luve o' life's young day.

Oh, dear, dear Jeanie Morrison,

Since we were sindered young, I've never seen your face nor heard The music o' your tongue;

But I could hug all wretchedness,

And happy could I die,

Did I but ken your heart still dreamed O' bygane days and me!

XX

GREAT PROSE WRITERS.

LORD BACON-JOHN MILTON-JEREMY TAYLOR-JOHN RUSKIN

CONCLUSION.

Or the many illustrious prose writers who adorned the reigns of Elizabeth and James the First, Bacon is the one whose shrewdness, and power, and admirable good sense have left the deepest traces in our literature. His Essays are still read with avidity and delight, every fresh perusal bringing forth fresh proofs of his knowledge of human nature and felicity of language. We cannot but be grateful to the author, however we may dislike as a man the treacherous friend of Essex and the cringing parasite of James.

I do not know any single passage that more advantageously displays his fulness and richness of thought and of style than this on the use of study.

"Studies serve for delight, for ornament, and for ability. Their chief use for delight is in privateness and retiring; for ornament is in discourse; and for ability is in the judgment and disposition of business; for expert men can execute, and perhaps judge of particulars one by one; but the general counsels, and the plots, and marshalling of affairs come best from those that are learned. To spend