nbroken dust. From such sources I have
obtained many of the ballads in the present collection. Those to which I
have stood godfather, and so baptised and remodelled, I have mostly met
with in the 'broadside' ballads, as they are called; but notwithstanding
their fire and pathos, I found so much obscenity and libertinism mingled
with their beauties, that I was compelled with a rash hand to pluck the
nettles away that choked the healthy growth of the young, fresh, and
budding flowers; preserving, as nearly as I could, their ancient
simplicity and diction. Others, by local and nameless poets, I have
given as I found them. Those ballads, virtually my own, are stated to be
so in the notes, and these, with great fear and tribulation, I hang as a
votive wreath on the altar of the Muses." This is explicit and
satisfactory, and we shall now proceed to see how our author has
redeemed his promise.

We have read every one of the thirty-seven ballads contained in this
volume, and the following is our synoptical view. Of "original"
ballads--by which Mr Sheldon means those which must be attributed to his
own inspired pen, and which constitute, as aforesaid, his votive
wreath--there are no less than thirteen; four ballads are taken from the
works of Messrs Mackay, Wilson, Telfer, and Hall--bards who have
flourished during the last twenty years upon the Border; four are
"remodelled" by Mr Sheldon; and _sixteen_, having no other
distinguishing mark upon them, must be set down as "ancient"
compositions. The man who can bestow upon us at the present time sixteen
authentic and hitherto unknown ballads, is indeed a public benefactor!

Out of courtesy to Mr Sheldon, we shall, in the first instance, dispose
of his own particular garland; and as it would be a pity to dismember
such a posy, we shall merely lay before our readers the following
_morceau_ from the ballad of "Seton's Sons."

"Seton he gaspit and he girn'd,
And showed his teeth sae whyte,
His een were glaikit like a man's
That's strycken wi' affryghte.

Quo' he, 'Lorde Percy, dinna think
I speak your lugs to blaw;
But let him spare my twa brave sonnes
And at his feet I'll fa!

'And wat them wi' these happing tears
That wash my auld, auld een,--
That channel down these wrynkelets,
Gin he will list bedeen.'

'My bairnies,' quo' the mother then,
'That I have kist sae aft,
Canna we save them frae their