"The blissful birdis bownis1 to the treis,
And ceasis of their heavenlie harmoneis;
The corn-crak,2 in the croft,3 I hear her cry,
The bat, the howlat, febill of their eis,4
For their pastyme now in the evening fleis; 5
The nightingale, with mirthful melody,
Her natural notis pierceth thro' the sky-
Till Cynthia makand her observance,
Quhilk on the nicht dois tak her dalliance.
"I see Pole Artick in the north appear,
And Venus rising with hir bemis cleir;
Quharefore,7 my sone, I hald it time to go.
Wald God, said I, ye did remain all yeir,8
That I micht of your hevinly lessons leir;"
Of your departing I am wonder wo.10
Tak pacience, said he, it mon be so;
Perchance I sall return with diligence.
Thus I departed from Experience."

Thus imitated:

"But see, descending to the glorious west,

'Midst spiry clouds of ruby, fringed with gold, Bright Phoebus seeks the palace of his restAnd earth's sweet roses, bathed in dew-drops cold, Breathe richer incense, as their leaves they fold To gentle Cynthia, lady chaste and bright, Whose silver orb, behind yon mountain old

Slow rising, through the dark blue vault of night, Sheds o'er each tower and tree a flood of hazy light. "Amid the woods the birds are sound asleep,

The dim-eyed bat flits darkling through the sky; No note is heard to break the silence deep,

Save, in the sward, the land-rail's shrilly cry: "Tis time, my son, we cease these reasonings high, And leave the reverend owl a peaceful reign. See, where she glares, with her large lustrous eye, From that old oak that time hath rent in twain, Wond'ring what busy tongue invades her still domain.

"Hush! the sweet nightingale salutes the moon,
And Venus' star unveils her love-lit glance;
I deem'd not the soft goddess rose so soon-
And yonder, high in the profound expanse,
Arcturus doth his brilliant spark advance,

That fix'dly burns-Once more, my son, Farewell—
Nay, grieve not that we part ;-I may, perchance,
Return, and to thine ear more wonders tell;—
Meanwhile, 'tis meet I seek my hoary, time-worn cell."

The "Monarch" appears to have been Lindsay's last, and it is, in many respects, his best work. It is nervous, original, learned, and pious —-full, indeed, of many poignant, satirical attacks upon the corruptions and licentiousness of the Romanist clergy; yet less bitter, coarse, and scurrilous than most of his earlier productions. It is pleasing, as he advances in years, to find the author receding from the indecency which was the poetical vice of the age-to mark the improved tendency and higher moral tone of his writings; and, while we sympathize with the pensive melancholy which tinges his last poetical legacy to his countrymen, to know that, when he entered his quiet oratory, he met there that steadfast faith, and rested on those blessed hopes, which furnished him with a key to all the sorrow, darkness, and vicissitude of this fluctuating existence.

"Be not to much solyst in temporall thingis,
Sen thow persaves Pape, emperor, and kingis
Into the erth hath na place permanent.

Thou sees the deth them schamefullie down thringis,
And rives thame from their rent, riches and ringis;
Tharefor on Christ confirme thine haill intent,

And of thy calling be richt weill content;
Then God, that feedes the fowlis of the air,

And needful thingis for thee he sall prepair."

Of the exact time and circumstances of Sir David Lindsay's death nothing is known. It happened, probably, a short time before the disgraceful immolation of the venerable martyr, old Walter Mill, who was burnt at St. Andrews, in April, 1558. It seems, at first, extraordinary that a man whose writings evidently enjoyed a high degree of popularity, should have expired without any record or memorial, so that we in vain search the family burying-place for a stone to mark the spot where the Lord Lion sleeps with his ancestors; but the fact is explained by the virtuous retirement in which he passed the latter years of his life, and the distracted condition of the country.

The family estate of Lindsay, called the Mount, from which he took his title, continued in the possession of his descendants when Sibbald published his "History of Fife," in 1710. It is now the property of General Sir Alexander Hope, of Rankeilour. In 1806, a farmer, of patriarchal age, who had lived for seventy years on the spot, pointed out to the literary curiosity of Mr. George Chalmers the site of the baronial family mansion; adding, that, within his memory, the walls of the castle remained. All traces of them are now obliterated, but a pleasing tradition still points out a shaded walk, on the top of the Mount, where Lindsay is said to have composed some of his poems. It was

called, in the youth of this aged man, Sir David's Walk; and, in 1801, when the woods of the Mount were cutting, the same venerable enthusiast interceded with General Sir Alexander Hope

for three ancient trees, which stood near the castle, and were known by the name of Sir David's trees. The liberal spirit of that gentleman probably needed no such monitor; but the trees were spared. It is likely they still remain, and the literary pilgrim may yet stand beneath their shade, indulging in the pleasing dream that he is sheltered by the same branches under which the Lord Lion was wont to ruminate, when he poured forth the lays which gave dignity to the lessons of Experience, and accelerated the progress of the Reformation.

A CHAPTER

OF

CANTIQUARIAN ILLUSTRATIONS.

I. HENRY THE MINSTREL.

II. BRUCE AND ST. FILLAN.

III. BATTLE OF BANNOCKBURN.

IV. DEATH OF GOOD SIR JAMES DOUGLAS IN SPAIN.,

V. RANDOLPH, EARL OF MORAY.

VI. EARLY FEUDAL GOVERNMENTS.

VII. TOURNAMENTS FOR THE BLACK LADY, BY JAMES

THE FOURTH.

VIII. JAMES IV. AND THE FLYING ABBOT OF TUNG

LAND.

IX. ARRIVAL OF THE GYPSIES IN SCOTLAND.

X. ANCIENT SCOTTISH GAMES AND AMUSEMENTS.