Introduction. 



i 



And ' in quiet roade," in the grey old aisle of Pucklechurch, 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. 



