Mr. Sandys, it may be noted, in his elegant volume of Christmas Carols (1833), transcribes a play called "St. George," which still is, or used to be, acted at the New Year in Cornwall, exactly after the manner of our Scottish play of "Goloshan" which it resembles as much as various versions of "Goloshan" in Scotland resemble each other. The leading characters, besides St. George himself and the Dragon, which is twice killed, are a Turkish knight and the King of Egypt. It is curious thus, as Dr. Chambers remarks, to find one play, with unimportant variations, preserved traditionally by the common people in parts of the island so distant from each other, and in many respects so different.

It is curious further, and of much interest to note, that in these singing-games, if nowhere else, the country and the city child, the children of the mansion and the children of the alley, meet all, beautifully, on common ground. And, how the out-door ones lie dormant for spaces, and spring simultaneously into action in widely separated parts—town and country alike—is a problem which may not be easily solved. It seems to us that, like the songs of birds, they belong to certain seasons, and are suggested, each in its turn, or class by class, by the feeling in the air. But mark, I say only seems, for who may dogmatize on such matters!

CHILDREN'S SONGS AND BALLADS.

Not the more exalted songs of child life here—not "Willie Winkie," and "Cuddle Doon," and "Castles in the Air," and all that widely esteemed band, which, collectively, would themselves tax the limits of a large volume—but some of the ruder ditties only which the children for many generations have delighted to sing, and been no less charmed by hearing sung, and which of late have not been so frequently seen in print. These rude old favourites, too, with slight comment—little being required. And of such, surely "Cock Robin" may well be awarded the place of honour—a song which, together with the more elaborate tale of "The Babes in the Wood," has done more to make its pert and dapper red-waistcoated subject the general favourite he is with old and young, than any virtue that may be claimed for the little tyrant himself.

COCK ROBIN.

Who killed Cock Robin? I, said the Sparrow, With my bow and arrow, I killed Cock Robin. Who saw him die? I, said the Fly, With my little eye, I saw him die. Who caught his blood? I, said the Fish, With my little dish, I caught his blood. Who'll make his shroud? I, said the Beetle, With my thread and needle, I'll make his shroud. Who'll carry him to his grave? I, said the Kite, If it's not in the night, I'll carry him to his grave. Who'll dig his grave? I, said the Owl, With my spade and shovel, I'll dig his grave. Who'll carry the link? I, said the Linnet, I'll fetch it in a minute, I'll carry the link. Who'll be chief mourner? I, said the Dove, I'll mourn for my love, I'll be chief mourner. Who'll sing the psalm? I, said the Thrush, As he sat on a bush, I'll sing the psalm. Who'll be the parson? I, said the Rook, With my little book, I'll be the parson. Who'll be the clerk? I, said the Lark, If it's not in the dark, I'll be the clerk. Who'll toll the bell? I, said the Bull, Because I can pull, I'll toll the bell. And all the little birds Fell a-sighing and a-sobbing, When they heard the bell toll For poor Cock Robin.

And of Cock Robin again, no less captivating has been the ballad celebrating his wedding with little Jenny Wren. Though why with a lady of the Wren family, must always strike naturalists as an absurdity; and, I suppose, we may not ask how it was the banns were not forbidden, since the Messrs. Wren, with the children, and the whole creation of birds—with the single exception of a blackguard cuckoo—have jubilantly acquiesced in the nuptials.