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. THE GAY GOSHAWK "O WALY, waly, my gay goshawk, "O have ye tint at tournament "I have not tint, at tournament, My sword, nor yet my spear; "But weel 's me on ye, my gay goshawk, Ye can baith speak and flee; Ye sall carry a letter to my love, But how sall I your true-love find, Or how suld I her know? I bear a tongue ne'er wi' her spake, 10 15 20 |