The rev. Thomas Warton was a man of extensive reading, an excellent critic, and a fascinating writer--but too often inattentive to accuracy of statement. He says that Randolph _died_ the 17th March, 1634: Wood says he was _buried_ the 17th March, 1634. He says it is so stated on his monument: the monument has no date. He says the _Poems_ of Randolph contain 114 pages: the volume contains 368 pages! He says the _Maske_ is a slight quarto of 30 pages only; it contains 40 pages! Is it not fit that such carelessness should be exposed? BOLTON CORNEY. * * * * * FOLK LORE. _Unlucky to sell eggs after Sunset._--The following paragraph is extracted from the _Stamford Mercury_ of October 29, 1852: "There exists a species of superstition in north Nottinghamshire against letting eggs go out of a house after sunset. The other day a person in want of some eggs called at a farm-house in East Markham, and inquired of the good woman of the house whether she had any eggs to sell, to which she replied that she had a few scores to dispose of. 'Then I'll take them home {8} with me in the cart,' was his answer; to which she somewhat indignantly replied, 'That you'll not; don't you know the sun has gone down? You are welcome to the eggs at a proper hour of the day; but I would not let them go out of the house after the sun is set on any consideration whatever!'" DRAUFIELD. _Old Song._-- My father gave me an acre of land, Sing ivy, sing ivy. My father gave me an acre of land, Sing green bush, holly, and ivy. I plough'd it with a ram's horn, Sing ivy, &c. I harrow'd it with a bramble, Sing ivy, &c. I sow'd it with a peppercorn, Sing ivy, &c. I reap'd it with my penknife, Sing ivy, &c. I carried it to the mill upon the cat's back, Sing ivy, &c. Then follows some more which I forget, but I think it ends thus: I made a cake for all the king's men, Sing ivy, sing ivy. I made a cake for all the king's men, Sing green bush, holly, and ivy. D. _Nursery Tale._-- I saddled my sow with a sieve full of buttermilk, put my foot into the stirrup, and leaped nine miles beyond the moon into the land of temperance, where there was nothing but hammers and hatchets and candlesticks, and there lay bleeding Old Noles. I let him lie, and sent for Old Hippernoles, and asked him if he could grind green steel nine times finer than wheat flour. He said he could not. Gregory's wife was up in the pear-tree gathering nine corns of buttered peas to pay Saint James' rent. Saint James was in the meadow mowing oat cakes; he heard a noise, hung his scythe at his heels, stumbled at the battledore, tumbled over the barn-door ridge, and broke his shins against a bag of moonshine that stood behind the stairsfoot door, and if that isn't true you know as well as I. D.