a president and six counsellors, who are nominated by the members at large, and have authority to admit or reject candidates _ad libitum_. The number of this association is now very great, having been of late years much increased; they have standards, with appropriate emblems and mottoes, and shoot for several prizes annually; amongst these are a silver bowl and arrows, which, by a singular regulation, "are retained by the successful candidate only one year, when he appends a medal to them; and as these prizes are of more than a hundred years standing, the number of medals now attached to them are very curious." [3] Their part in the procession formed to welcome our monarch to his Scottish metropolis, should be excepted. To this notice may I be permitted to subjoin a few stanzas? Old Izaak Walton hath put songs and sylvan poesy in plenty into the mouths of his anglers and rural _dramatis personae_, and shall _I_ be blamed for following, in all humility, his illustrious example? Perchance--but hold! it is one of the fairest of summer mornings; the sun sheds a pure, a silvery light on the young, fresh, new-waked foliage and herbage; a faint mist veils the blue distance of the landscape; but the pearly shroud conceals not yonder troop of young blithe men, who, arranged in green, after the olden fashion, each bearing the implements of archery, and tripping lightly over the heath, are carolling in the joy of their free spirits, while the fresh breeze brings to my ear most distinctly the words of THE ARCHER'S SONG. Away!--away!--yon golden sun Hath chas'd nights' shadows damp and dun; Forth from his turfy couch, the lark Hath sprung to meet glad day: and hark! A mingling and delicious song Breathes from the blithe-voiced plumy throng; While, to the green-wood hasten _we_ Whose craft is, gentle archery! Now swift we bound o'er dewy grass! Rousing the red fox as we pass, And startling linnet, merle, and thrush, As recklessly the boughs we brush. The _hunter's_ horn sings thro' the brakes. And its soft lay apt echo takes; But soon her sweet enamoured tone Shall tell what song is all _our_ own! On!--on!--glad brothers of the bow! The dun deer's couching place ye know, And gallant bucks this day shall rue Our feather'd shafts,--so swift,--so true; Yet, sorer than the sylvan train, Our foes, upon the battle-plain, Will mourn at the unerring hands Of Albion's _matchless_ archer bands! Now hie we on, to silent shades, To glist'ning streams, and sunlit glades, Where all that woodland life can give, Renders it bliss indeed, to _live_. Come, ye who love the shadowy wood, Whate'er your days, whate'er your mood. And join _us_, freakish knights that be Of grey-goose wing, and good yew-tree!