'Alack and wae!' quo' auld Jock Grieve,
'Alack! my heart is sair for thee;

For I was married on the elder sister,
And you on the youngest of a' the three.'

Then he has ta'en out a bonny black,
Was right weel fed wi' corn and hay,
And he's set Jamie Telfer on his back
To the Catslockhill to tak' the fray.

And whan he cam to the Catslockhill,
He shouted loud and weel cried he,
Till out and spak him William Watt,
'O whae's this brings the fray to me?'

'Its I, Jamie Telfer o' the fair Dodhead, A harried man I think I be,

The Captain of Bewcastle has driven my gear; For God's sake rise and succour me.'

He's set his twa sons on coal black steeds,
Himsel upon a freckled gray,

And they are on wi' Jamie Telfer

To Branksome Ha' to tak the fray.

And whan they came to Branksome Ha'
They shouted a' baith loud and hie,
Till up and spak him bauld Buccleugh

Said, 'Whae's this brings the fray to me.'

'Its I, Jamie Telfer o' the fair Dodhead,
And a harried man I think I be,
There's nought left in the fair Dodhead
But a greeting wife and bairnies three.'

'Alack for wae!' quoth the gude auld lord, 'And ever my heart is wae for thee!

But fye, gar cry on Willie, my son,
And see that he come to me speedilie!

Gar warn the water, braid and wide,
Gar warn it soon and hastily!
They that winna ride for Telfer's kye,

Let them never look in the face o' me!

Warn Wat o' Harden and his sons,
Wi' them will Borthwick water ride;
Warn Gaudilands and Allanhaugh,
And Gilmanscleugh and Commonside.

Ride by the gate at Priesthaughswire
And warn the Currors o' the Lee;
As ye come down the Hermitage Slack,
Warn doughty Willie o' Gorinberry.'

The Scots they rade, the Scots they ran,
Sae starkly and sae steadilie!
And aye the ower-word o' the thrang

Was Rise for Branksome readilie.""

Does not this teem with life and action? Where else will be found so graphic a description of what border life must have been. Scott occasionally strikes something like the same note :—

"Ten of them were sheathed in steel,
With belted sword and spur on heel :
They quitted not their harness bright
Neither by day nor yet by night :
They lay down to rest,

With corslet laced,

Pillowed on buckler cold and hard;

They carved at the meal

With gloves of steel,

And they drank the red wine through the helmet barred."

His lines, however, lack the idea of reality that strikes one in the verses before quoted and even more forcibly in the description of the combat that follows them. Similar to "Jamie Telfer" is "Kinmont Willie," exemplifying in his daring rescue from Carlisle Castle one of the noblest traits in the border character,-that spirit of stubborn fellowship that faced every danger for the rescue of a clansman.

So much for our ballads of the past. As a class, ballads need not change in their nature as time rolls on, for they

ought in every case to represent the feelings of the heart. Although their essential elements, however, may still remain the same, the drapery in which they are shrouded soon becomes antique. Goethe, Schiller, Beranger and Longfellow have written modern ballads which will never lose their vigour, but, for the reason given, it would be unfair to contrast them with the ones we have been considering. Let us content ourselves with the general principle that, whether they be of ancient or modern date, our ballads have equal claims to our respect. Both are full of the noblest sentiments and alive with the deepest feelings. The one class may have greater intensity, but the other has greater depth. The one has received the impress of antiquity and speaks to us in a voice which, though rude and stammering, is yet homely and sincere, while the other is stamped with the mark of lofty genius and, although lacking perhaps the freshness of youth, is characterised by a purer sentiment and clothed in a more artistic dress.

LUCRETIUS MORIBUNDUS.

My spirit's foster-son,

My soul's beloved one,

Hear me before I leave the lovely coasts of light :
Curse on that fiery cup

Burning my life's blood up!

Curse on the jealous rage that hurls me into night!

I leave an unfledged song

That mightily ere long

Had borne on eagle's wings fair Wisdom o'er the earth;
Fragments which, knit in one,

What Hellas tried, had done,—

Had taught the enslaved to know bond-breaking Wisdom's worth.

But, though my notes are marred,
My light with darkness barred,

Using what aid I give,-what aid the Sages all,

Oh, strive with strength of will

Against the priests of ill;

With quickening blasts of Truth rend Falsehood's misty pall.

Must man for endless years

Be prey of harpy fears,

And ever look on facts with demon-dreaming eyes?
Ever in maudlin faith

Fearing both life and death

Bind to the altar's horns the innocent sacrifice?

Fools! His own mind must plan,
His own hands work for man;

Idle the hollow hopes a dream of shadows gives.
Why yearn to live a ghost?

Why scorn our proudest boast,

That, though the Doer die, the Deed forever lives?

The Deed forever lives

And, outward circling, gives

Its impulse to the eddying, changeful stream of time,
Long after he has passed

Into the seething vast

Who struck the blow for good or wrought the deathful crime.

Then break the barriers old,

Tear off the dead-clothes cold

That chill the living force within the human breast!
They tramp, the unfettered feet!

The manly pulses beat!

The world is free, is free! I turn me to my rest.