rbee;
With all the worst of Robin's band,
And many a Rapparee!

Little John he wist not what to do,
When he saw the others come;
So he twisted his quarter-staff between
His fingers and his thumb.

"There's some mistake, good Friar!" he said,
"There's some mistake 'twixt thee and me;
I know thou art Prior of Copmanshurst,
But not beneath the greenwood tree.

"And if you will take some other name,
You shall have ample leave to bide;
With pasture also for your Bulls,
And power to range the forest wide."

"There's no mistake!" the Friar said;
"I'll call myself just what I please.
My doctrine is that chalk is chalk,
And cheese is nothing else than cheese."

"So be it, then!" quoth Little John;
"But surely you will not object,
If I and all my merry men
Should treat you with reserved respect?

"We can't call you Prior of Copmanshurst,
Nor Bishop of London town,
Nor on the grass, as you chance to pass,
Can we very well kneel down.

"But you'll send the Pope my compliments,
And say, as a further hint,
That, within the Sherwood bounds, you saw
Little John, who is the son-in-law
Of his friend, old Mat-o'-the-Mint!"

So ends this geste of Little John--
God save our noble Queen!
But, Lordlings, say--Is Sherwood now
What Sherwood once hath been? {200}

The Rhyme of Sir Launcelot Bogle.

A LEGEND OF GLASGOW.

BY MRS E--- B--- B---.

There's a pleasant place of rest, near a City of the West,
Where its bravest and its best find their grave.
Below the willows weep, and their hoary branches steep
In the waters still and deep,
Not a wave!

And the old Cathedral Wall, so scathed and grey and tall,
Like a priest surveying all, stands beyond;
And the ringing of its bell, when the ringers ring it well,
Makes a kind of tidal swell
On the pond!

And there it was I lay, on a beauteous summer's day,
With the odour of the hay floating by;
And I heard the blackbirds sing, and the bells demurely ring,
Chime by chime, ting by ting,
Droppingly.

Then my thoughts went wandering back, on a very beaten track,
To the confine deep and black of the tomb;
And I wondered who he was, that is laid beneath the grass,
Where the dandelion has
Such a bloom.

Then I straightway did espy, with my slantly-sloping eye,
A carved stone hard by, somewhat worn;
And I read in lett