IntrodiiciioJL. i -> 



And " in quiet roade," in liic grey old aisle of Piicklerhiirch, our poet's 

 rest is won : — 



" Such a sleep he sleeps, the man we love ! " 



— this man that may have seen the face of Shakespeare, nay, this man that, 

 perchance, fished in his immortal company, the Boyd that he loved and sung 

 so well — the Boyd that still, with " crooked, winding way," — 



" Its mother Avon runneth soft to seek." 



T. WESTWOOD. 



