XLII.

He quits that moonlight yard of skulls, And still he feels right glad, and smiles With moral joy at that old tomb; Peter's cheek recalls its bloom, And as he creepeth by the tiles, He mutters ever--'W. W. Never more will trouble you, trouble you.'

_Here endeth the ballad of Peter Bell._

ROBERT GILFILLAN.

BLUE BONNETS OVER THE BORDER.

(SCOTT)

Read, read, _Woodstock_ and _Waverley_, Turn every page and read forward in order; Read, read, every tale cleverly, All the old novels are over the border. Many a book lies dead, Dusty and never read, Many a chiel wants a thread to his story; While Walter, that king o' men, Just with his single pen, Like a giant, well _grogged_, marches on in his glory!

Come from your tales full of murders amazing, Come from romaunts gone to bed long ago; Come from the scribblers whom pye-men are praising, Come to _Redgauntlet_ and brave _Ivanhoe_! Scott's fame is sounding, Readers abounding, May laurels long circle his locks thin and hoary! Scotland shall many a day Speak of her bard, and say, He lived for his country, and wrote for her glory!

THOMAS HOOD.

THE IRISH SCHOOLMASTER.

(SPENSER)