University of Virginia Library


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BOOK III.

I. THE COMPLAINT OF CONSCIENCE.

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I shall begin this Third Book with an old allegoric Satire: A manner of moralizing, which, if it was not first introduced by the author of Pierce Plowman's Visions, was at least chiefly brought into repute by that ancient satirist. It is not so generally known that the kind of verse used in this ballad hath any affinity with the peculiar metre of that writer.


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The following Song intitled The Complaint of Conscience, is printed from the Editor's folio Manuscript: Some corruptions in the old Copy are here corrected; but not without notice to the Reader, where it was necessary, by inclosing the corrections between inverted ‘Commas.’

As I walked of late by an wood side,
To God for to meditate was mine entent;
Where under an hawthorne I suddenlye spyed
A silly poore creature ragged and rent,
With bloody teares his face was besprent,
His sleshe and his color consumed away,
And his garments they were all mire, mucke, and clay.
This made me muse, and much ‘to’ desire
To know what kind of man hee shold bee;
I stept to him straight, and did him require
His name and his secretts to shew unto mee.
His head he cast up, and wooful was hee,
My name, quoth he, is the cause of my care,
And makes me scorned, and left here so bare.
Then straightway he turnd him, and prayd me sit downe,
And I will, saithe he, declare my whole greefe;
My name is called, Conscience:—wheratt he did frowne,
He repined to repeate it, and grinded his teethe,
‘Thoughe now, silly wretche, I'm denyed all releef,’

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‘Yet’ while I was young, and tender of yeeres,
I was entertained with kinges, and with peeres.
There was none in the court that lived in such fame,
For with the kinges councell I sate in commission;
Dukes, earles, and barons esteem'd of my name;
And how that I liv'd there, needs no repetition:
I was ever holden in honest condition,
For how-e'er the lawes went in Westminster-hall,
When sentence was given, for me they wold call.
No incomes at all the landlords wold take,
But one pore peny, that was their fine;
And that they acknowledged to be for my sake.
The poore wold doe nothing without councell mine:
I ruled the world with the right line:
For nothing ‘ere’ passed betweene foe and friend,
But Conscience was called to bee at the end.
Noe bargaine, nor merchandize merchants wold make
But I was called a witnesse therto:
No use for noe money, nor forfett wold take,
But I wold controule them, if that they did soe:
‘And’ that makes me live now in great woe,
For then came in Pride, Sathan's disciple,
That is now entertained with all kind of people.
He brought with him three, whose names ‘thus they call’
That is Covetousnes, Lecherye, Usury, beside:

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They never prevail'd, till they wrought my downe-fall;
Soe Pride was entertained, but Conscience decried,
And ‘now ever since’ abroad have I tryed
To have had entertainment with some one or other;
But I am rejected, and scorned of my brother.
Then went I to Court the gallants to winne,
But the porter kept me out of the gate:
To Bartlemew Spittle to pray for my sinne,
They bade me goe packe, itt was fit for my state;
Goe, goe, thread-bare Conscience, and seeke thee a mate.
Good Lord, long preserve my king, prince, and queene,
With whom I ever esteemed have been.
Then went I to London, where once I did ‘dwell’:
But they bade away with me, when they knew my name;
For he will undoe us to bye and to sell!
They bade me goe packe me, and hye me for shame;
They laught at my raggs, and there had good game;
This is old thread-bare Conscience, that dwelt with saint Peter:
But they wold not admitt me to be a chimney-sweeper.
Not one wold receive me, the Lord he doth know;
I having but one poor pennye in my purse,
On an awle and some patches I did it bestow;
For I thought better cobble shoes than to doe worse:
Straight then all the coblers began for to curse,

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And by statute wold prove me a rogue, and forlorne,
And whipp me out of towne to seeke where I was borne.
Then did I remember, and call to my minde,
The Court of Conscience where once I did sit,
Not doubting but there I favor shold find,
Sith my name and the place agreed soe fit;
But sure of my purpose I fayled a whit,
For ‘thoughe’ the judge us'd my name in every commission,
The lawyers with their quillets wold get my dismission.
Then Westminster-hall was no place for me;
Good lord! how the Lawyers began to assemble,
And fearfull they were, lest there I shold bee!
The silly poore clarkes began for to tremble;
I showed them my cause, and did not dissemble;
Soe they gave me some money my charges to beare,
But swore me on a booke I must never come there.
Next the Merchants said, Counterfeite, get thee away,
Dost thou remember how we thee fond?
We banisht thee the country beyond the salt sea,
And sett thee on shore in the New-found land;
And there thou and wee most friendly shook hand,
And we were right glad when thou didst refuse us;
For when we wold reape here thou woldst accuse us.

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Then had I noe way, but for to go on
To Gentlemens houses of an ancyent name;
Declaring my greeffes, and there I made moane,
Telling how their forefathers held me in fame:
And at letting their farmes ‘how always I came’.
They sayd, Fye upon thee! we may thee curse:
Theire leases continue, and we fare the worse.
And then I was forced a begging to goe
To husbandmens houses, who greeved right sore,
And sware that their landlords had plagued them soe,
Thet they were not able to keepe open dore,
Nor nothing had left to give to the poore:
Therefore to this wood I doe me repayre,
Where hepps and hawes, it is my best fare.
Yet within this same desert some comfort I have
Of Mercye, of Pittye, and of Almes-deeds;
Who have vowed to company me to my grave.
We are all put to silence, and live upon weeds,
‘And hence such cold house-keeping proceeds’:
Our banishment is its utter decay,
The which the riche glutton will answer one day.
Why then, I said to him, me-thinks it were best
To goe to the Clergie; for daylie they preach
Eche man to love you above all the rest;
Of Mercye and Pittye and Almes-deeds they teache.
O, said he, noe matter a pin what they preache,

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For their wives and their children soe hange them upon,
That whosoever gives alms they will give none.
Then laid he him down, and turned him away,
And prayd me to goe, and leave him to rest.
I told him, I haplie might yet see the day
For him and his fellowes to live with the best.
First, said he, banish Pride, then England were blest;
For then those wold love us, that now sell their land,
And then good house-keeping wold revive out of hand.
 

We ought in justice and truth to read ‘can’.

II. PLAIN TRUTH, AND BLIND IGNORANCE.

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This excellent old ballad is preserved in the little ancient miscellany intitled, “The Garland of Goodwill.”—Ignorance is here made to speak in the broad Somersetshire dialect. The scene we may suppose to be Glastonbury Abbey.

Truth.
God speed you, ancient father,
And give you a good daye;
What is the cause, I praye you,
So sadly here you staye?

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And that you keep such gazing
On this decayed place,
The which, for superstition,
Good princes down did raze?

Ignorance.
Chill tell thee, by my vazen,
That zometimes che have knowne
A vair and goodly abbey
Stand here of bricke and stone;
And many a holy vrier,
As ich may say to thee,
Within these goodly cloysters
Che did full often zee.

Truth.
Then I must tell thee, father,
In truthe and veritiè,
A sorte of greater hypocrites
Thou couldst not likely see;
Deceiving of the simple
With false and feigned lies:
But such an order truly
Christ never did devise.

Ignorance.
Ah! ah! che zmell thee now, man;
Che know well what thou art;

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A vellow of mean learning,
Thee was not worth a vart:
Vor when we had the old lawe,
A merry world was then;
And every thing was plenty
Among all zorts of men.

Truth.
Thou givest me an answer,
As did the Jewes sometimes
Unto the prophet Jeremye,
When he accus'd their crimes:
'Twas merry, sayd the people,
And joyfull in our rea'me,
When we did offer spice-cakes
Unto the queen of heav'n.

Ignorance.
Chill tell thee what, good vellowe,
Before the vriers went hence,
A bushell of the best wheate
Was zold vor vourteen pence;
And vorty egges a penny,
That were both good and newe;
And this che zay my zelf have zeene,
And yet ich am no Jewe.


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Truth.
Within the sacred bible
We find it written plain,
The latter days should troublesome
And dangerous be, certaine;
That we should be self-lovers,
And charity wax colde;
Then 'tis not true religion
That makes thee grief to holde.

Ignorance.
Chill tell thee my opinion plaine,
And choul'd that well ye knewe,
Ich care not for the bible booke;
Tis too big to be true.
Our blessed ladyes psalter
Zhall for my money goe;
Zuch pretty prayers, as there bee,
The bible cannot zhowe.

Truth.
Nowe hast thou spoken trulye,
For in that book indeede
No mention of our lady,
Or Romish saint we read:
For by the blessed Spirit
That book indited was,
And not by simple persons,
As was the foolish masse.


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Ignorance.
Cham zure they were not voolishe
That made the masse, che trowe:
Why, man, 'tis all in Latine,
And vools no Latine knowe.
Were not our fathers wise men,
And they did like it well;
Who very much rejoyced
To heare the zacring bell?

Truth.
But many kinges and prophets,
As I may say to thee,
Have wisht the light that you have,
And could it never see:
For what art thou the better
A Latin song to heare,
And understandest nothing.
That they sing in the quiere?

Ignorance.
O hold thy peace, che pray thee,
The noise was passing trim
To heare the vriers zinging,
As we did enter in:
And then to zee the rood-loft
Zo bravely zet with zaints;—
But now to zee them wandring
My heart with zorrow vaints.


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Truth.
The Lord did give commandment,
No image thou shouldst make,
Nor that unto idolatry
You should your self betake:
The golden calf of Israel
Moses did therefore spoile;
And Baal's priests and temple
Were brought to utter foile.

Ignorance.
But our lady of Walsinghame
Was a pure and holy zaint,
And many men in pilgrimage
Did shew to her complaint;
Yea with zweet Thomas Becket,
And many other moe;
The holy maid of Kent likewise
Did many wonders zhowe.

Truth.
Such saints are well agreeing
To your profession sure;
And to the men that made them
So precious and so pure;
The one for being a traytoure,
Met an untimely death;

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The other eke for treason
Did end her hateful breath.

Ignorance.
Yea, yea, it is no matter,
Dispraise them how you wille:
But zure they did much goodnesse;
Would they were with us stille!
We had our holy water,
And holy bread likewise,
And many holy reliques
We zaw before our eyes.

Truth.
And all this while they fed you
With vain and empty showe,
Which never Christ commanded,
As learned doctors knowe:
Search then the holy scriptures,
And thou shalt plainly see
That headlong to damnation
They alway trained thee.

Ignorance.
If it be true, good vellowe,
As thou dost zay to mee,
Unto my heavenly fader
Alone then will I flee:

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Believing in the Gospel,
And passion of his zon,
And with the zubtil papistes
Ich have for ever done.

 

By name Eliz. Barton, executed Ap. 21. 1534. Stow, p. 570.

III. THE WANDERING JEW.

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The story of the Wandering Jew is of considerable antiquity: it had obtained full credit in this part of the world before the year 1228, as we learn from Mat. Paris. For in that year, it seems, there came an Armenian archbishop into England, to visit the shrines and reliques preserved in our churches; who being entertained at the monastery of St. Albans, was asked several questions relating to his country, &c. Among the rest a monk, who sat near him, inquired “if he had ever seen or heard of the famous person named Joseph, that was so much talked of; who was present at our Lord's crucifixion and conversed with him, and who was still alive in confirmation of the Christian faith.” The archbishop answered, That the fact was true. And afterwards one of his train, who was well known to a servant of the abbot's, interpreting his master's words, told them in French, “That his lord knew the person they spoke of very well: that he had dined at his table but a little while before he left the East: that he had been Pontius Pilate's porter, by name Cartaphilus; who, when they were dragging Jesus out of the door of the Judgment-hall, struck him with his fist on the back, saying,


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“Go faster, Jesus, go faster; why dost thou linger?” Upon which Jesus looked at him with a frown and said, “I indeed am going, but thou shalt tarry till I come.” Soon after he was converted, and baptized by the name of Joseph. He lives for ever, but at the end of every hundred years falls into an incurable illness, and at length into a fit or ecstasy, out of which when he recovers, he returns to the same state of youth he was in when Jesus suffered, being then about 30 years of age. He remembers all the circumstances of the death and resurrection of Christ, the saints that arose with him, the composing of the apostles creed, their preaching, and dispersion; and is himself a very grave and holy person.” This is the substance of Matthew Paris's account, who was himself a monk of St. Albans, and was living at the time when this Armenian archbishop made the above relation.

Since his time several impostors have appeared at intervals under the name and character of the Wandering Jew; whose several histories may be seen in Calmet's dictionary of the Bible. See also the Turkish Spy, Vol. 2. Book 3. Let. 1. The story that is copied in the following ballad is of one, who appeared at Hamburgh in 1547, and pretended he had been a Jewish shoemaker at the time of Christ's crucifixion.—The ballad however seems to be of later date. It is printed from a black-letter copy in the Pepys collection.

When as in faire Jerusalem
Our Saviour Christ did live,
And for the sins of all the worlde
His own deare life did give;
The wicked Jewes with scoffes and scornes
Did dailye him molest,
That never till he left his life,
Our Saviour could not rest.

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When they had crown'd his head with thornes,
And scourg'd him to disgrace,
In scornfull sort they led him forthe
Unto his dying place;
Where thousand thousands in the streete
Beheld him passe along,
Yet not one gentle heart was there,
That pityed this his wrong.
Both old and young reviled him,
As in the streete he wente,
And nought he found but churlish tauntes,
By every ones consente:
His owne deare crosse he bore himselfe,
A burthen far too great,
Which made him in the street to fainte,
With blood and water sweat.
Being weary thus, he sought for rest,
To ease his burthened soule,
Upon a stone; the which a wretch
Did churlishly controule;
And sayd, Awaye, thou king of Jewes,
Thou shalt not rest thee here;
Pass on; thy execution place
Thou seest nowe draweth neare.
And thereupon he thrust him thence;
At which our Saviour sayd,

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I sure will rest, but thou shalt walke,
And have no journey stayed.
With that this cursed shoemaker,
For offering Christ this wrong,
Left wife and children, house and all,
And went from thence along.
Where after he had seene the bloude
Of Jesus Christ thus shed,
And to the crosse his bodye nail'd,
Awaye with speed he fled
Without returning backe againe
Unto his dwelling place,
And wandred up and downe the worlde,
A runnagate most base.
No resting could he finde at all,
No ease, nor hearts content;
No house, nor home, nor biding place:
But wandring forth he went
From towne to towne in foreigne landes,
With grieved conscience still,
Repenting for the heinous guilt
Of his fore-passed ill.
Thus after some fewe ages past
In wandring up and downe;
He much again desired to see
Jerusalems renowne,

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But finding it all quite destroyd,
He wandred thence with woe,
Our Saviours wordes, which he had spoke,
To verefie and showe.
“I'll rest, sayd hee, but thou shalt walke,”
So doth this wandring Jew
From place to place, but cannot rest
For seeing countries newe;
Declaring still the power of him,
Whereas he comes or goes,
And of all things done in the east,
Since Christ his death, he showes.
The world he hath still compast round
And seene those nations strange,
That hearing of the name of Christ,
Their idol gods doe change:
To whom he hath told wondrous thinges
Of time forepast, and gone,
And to the princes of the worlde
Declares his cause of moane:
Desiring still to be dissolv'd,
And yeild his mortal breath;
But, if the Lord hath thus decreed,
He shall not yet see death.
For neither lookes he old nor young,
But as he did those times,

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When Christ did suffer on the crosse
For mortall sinners crimes.
He hath past through many a foreigne place,
Arabia, Egypt, Africa,
Grecia, Syria, and great Thrace,
And throughout all Hungaria:
Where Paul and Peter preached Christ,
Those blest apostles deare;
There he hath told our Saviours wordes,
In countries far, and neare.
And lately in Bohemia,
With many a German towne;
And now in Flanders, as tis thought,
He wandreth up and downe:
Where learned men with him conferre
Of those his lingering dayes,
And wonder much to heare him tell
His journeyes, and his wayes.
If people give this Jew an almes,
The most that he will take
Is not above a groat a time;
Which he, for Jesus' sake,
Will kindlye give unto the poore,
And thereof make no spare,
Affirming still that Jesus Christ
Of him hath dailye care.

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He ne'er was seene to laugh nor smile,
But weepe and make great moane;
Lamenting still his miseries,
And dayes forepast and gone:
If he heare any one blaspheme,
Or take God's name in vaine,
He telles them that they crucifie
Their Saviour Christe againe.
If you had seene his death, saith he,
As these mine eyes have done,
Ten thousand thousand times would yee
His torments think upon:
And suffer for his sake all paine
Of torments, and all woes.
These are his wordes and eke his life
Whereas he comes or goes.

IV. THE LYE,

By Sir Walter Raleigh,

[_]

—is found in a very scarce miscellany intitled “Davison's Poems, or a poeticall Rapsodie divided into sixe books. . . . .


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The 4th impression newly corrected and augmented, and put into a forme more pleasing to the reader. Lond. 1621. 12mo.” This poem is reported to have been written by its celebrated author the night before his execution, Oct. 29. 1618. But this must be a mistake, for there were at least two editions of Davison's poems before that time, one in 1608 : the other in 1611 . So that unless this poem was an after-insertion in the 4th edit. it must have been written long before the death of Sir Walter: perhaps it was composed soon after his condemnation in 1603.

Goe, soule, the bodies guest,
Upon a thankelesse arrant;
Feare not to touche the best,
The truth shall be thy warrant:
Goe, since I needs must dye,
And give the world the lye.
Goe tell the court, it glowes
And shines like rotten wood;
Goe tell the church it showes
What's good, and doth no good:
If church and court reply,
Then give them both the lye.
Tell potentates they live
Acting by others actions;
Not lov'd unlesse they give,
Not strong but by their factions:

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If potentates reply,
Give potentates the lye.
Tell men of high condition,
That rule affairs of state,
Their purpose is ambition,
Their practise onely hate;
And if they once reply,
Then give them all the lye.
Tell them that brave it most,
They beg for more by spending,
Who in their greatest cost
Seek nothing but commending;
And if they make reply,
Spare not to give the lye.
Tell zeale, it lacks devotion;
Tell love it is but lust;
Tell time, it is but motion;
Tell flesh, it is but dust;
And wish them not reply,
For thou must give the lye.
Tell age, it daily wasteth;
Tell honour, how it alters;
Tell beauty, how she blasteth;
Tell favour, how she falters;

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And as they shall reply,
Give each of them the lye.
Tell wit, how much it wrangles
In tickle points of nicenesse;
Tell wisedome, she entangles
Herselfe in over-wisenesse;
And if they do reply,
Straight give them both the lye.
Tell physicke of her boldnesse;
Tell skill, it is pretension;
Tell charity of coldness;
Tell law, it is contention;
And as they yield reply,
So give them still the lye.
Tell fortune of her blindnesse;
Tell nature of decay;
Tell friendship of unkindnesse;
Tell justice of delay:
And if they dare reply,
Then give them all the lye.
Tell arts, they have no soundnesse,
But vary by esteeming;
Tell schooles, they want profoundnesse,
And stand too much on seeming:

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If arts and schooles reply,
Give arts and schooles the lye.
Tell faith, it's fled the citie;
Tell how the countrey erreth;
Tell, manhood shakes off pitie;
Tell, vertue least preferreth:
And, if they doe reply,
Spare not to give the lye.
So, when thou hast, as I
Commanded thee, done blabbing,
Although to give the lye
Deserves no less than stabbing,
Yet stab at thee who will,
No stab the soule can kill.
 

Catalog of T. Rawlinson 1727.

Cat. of Sion coll. library. This is either lost or mislaid.

V. VERSES BY KING JAMES I.

[_]

In the former edition of this book were inserted, by way of specimen of his majesty's poetic talents, some Punning Verses made on the disputations at Sterling: but it having been suggested to the editor, that the king only gave the


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quibbling commendations in prose, and that some obsequious court-rhymer put them into metre ; it was thought proper to exchange them for two Sonnets of K. James's own composition. James was a great versifier, and therefore out of the multitude of his poems, we have here selected two, which (to shew our impartiality) are written in his best and his worst manner. The first would not dishonour any writer of that time; the second is a most complete example of the Bathos.

A Sonnet addressed by King James to his son Prince Henry

God gives not kings the stile of Gods in vaine,
For on his throne his scepter do they swey:
And as their subjects ought them to obey,
So kings should feare and serve their God againe.
If then ye would enjoy a happie reigne,
Observe the statutes of our heavenly king;
And from his law make all your laws to spring;
Since his lieutenant here ye should remaine.
Rewarde the just, be stedfast, true and plaine;
Represse the proud, maintayning aye the right;
Walke always so, as ever in his sight,
Who guardes the godly, plaguing the prophane.

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And so ye shall in princely vertues shine,
Resembling right your mightie king divine.
[_]

From K. James's works in folio: Where is also printed another called his Majesty's own Sonnet; it would perhaps be too cruel to infer from thence that this was not his Majesty's own Sonnet.

A Sonnet occasioned by the bad Weather which hindred the Sports at Newmarket in January 1616.

How cruelly these catives do conspire?
What loathsome love breeds such a baleful band
Betwixt the cankred king of Creta land ,
That melancholy old and angry fire,
And him, who wont to quench debate and ire
Among the Romans, when his ports were clos'd ?
But now his double face is still dispos'd,
With Saturn's help, to freeze us at the fire.
The earth ore-covered with a sheet of snow,
Refuses food to fowl, to bird and beast:
The chilling cold lets every thing to grow,
And surfeits cattle with a starving feast.
Curs'd be that love and mought continue short,
Which kills all creatures, and doth spoil our sport.
[_]

This is printed from Drummond of Hawthornden's works, folio: where also may be seen some verses of Lord Stirling's upon this Sonnet, which concludes with the finest Anticlimax I remember to have seen.

 

See a folio intitled “The Muses welcome to King James.”

Saturn.

Janus.


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VI. K. JOHN AND THE ABBOT OF CANTERBURY.

[_]

The common popular ballad of King John and the abbot seem to have been abridged and modernized about the time of James I. from one much older, intitled KingJohn and the Bishop of Canterbury.” The Editor's folio MS. contains a copy of this last, but in too corrupt a state to be reprinted; it however afforded many lines worth reviving, which will be found inserted in the ensuing stanzas.

The archness of the following questions and answers hath been much admired by our old ballad-makers; for besides the two copies above mentioned, there is extant another ballad on the same subject, (but of no great antiquity or merit) intitled, “King Olfrey and the Abbot .” Lastly, about the time of the civil wars, when the cry ran against the bishops, some Puritan worked up the same story into a very doleful ditty, to a solemn tune, concerning “King Henry and a Bishop,” with this stinging moral,

“Unlearned men hard matters out can find,
“When learned bishops princes eyes do blind.”

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The following is chiefly printed from an ancient blackletter copy, to “The tune of Derry down.”

An ancient story Ile tell you anon
Of a notable prince, that was called king John;
And he ruled England with maine and with might,
For he did great wrong, and maintein'd little right.
And Ile tell you a story, a story so merrye,
Concerning the Abbot of Canterbùrye;
How for his house-keeping, and high renowne,
They rode poste for him to fair London towne.
An hundred men, the king did heare say,
The abbot kept in his house every day;
And fifty golde chaynes, without any doubt,
In velvet coates waited the abbot about.
How now, father abbot, I heare it of thee,
Thou keepest a farre better house than mee,
And for thy house-keeping and high renowne,
I feare thou work'st treason against my crown.
My liege, quo' the abbot, I would it were knowne,
I never spend nothing, but what is my owne;
And I trust, your grace will doe me no deere,
For spending of my owne true-gotten geere.

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Yes, yes, father abbot, thy fault it is highe,
And now for the same thou needest must dye;
For except thou canst answer me questions three,
Thy head shall be smitten from thy bodìe.
And first, quo' the king, when I'm in this stead,
With my crowne of golde so faire on my head,
Among all my liege-men so noble of birthe
Thou must tell me to one penny what I am worthe.
Secondlye, tell me, without any doubt,
How soone I may ride the whole world about;
And at the third question thou must not shrink,
But tell me here truly what I do think.
O, these are hard questions for my shallow witt,
Nor I cannot answer your grace as yet;
But if you will give me but three weekes space,
Ile do my endeavour to answer your grace.
Now three weeks space to thee will I give,
And that is the longest time thou hast to live;
For if thou dost not answer my questions three,
Thy lands and thy livings are forfeit to mee.
Away rode the abbot all sad at that word,
And he rode to Cambridge, and Oxenford;
But never a doctor there was so wise,
That could with his learning an answer devise.

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Then home rode the abbot of comfort so cold,
And he mett his shepheard a going to fold:
How now, my lord abbot, you are welcome home;
What newes do you bring us from good king John?
“Sad newes, sad newes, shepheard, I must give;
That I have but three days more to live:
For if I do not answer him questions three,
My head will be smitten from my bodìe:
The first is to tell him there in that stead,
With his crowne of golde so fair on his head,
Among all his liege men so noble of birth,
To within one penny of what he is worth.
The seconde, to tell him, without any doubt,
How soone he may ride this whole world about:
And at the third question I must not shrinke,
But tell him there truly what he does thinke.”
Now cheare up, sire abbot, did you never hear yet,
That a fool he may learn a wise man witt?
Lend me horse, and serving men, and your apparel,
And I'll ride to London to answere your quarrel.
Nay frowne not, if it hath bin told unto mee,
I am like your lordship, as ever may bee:
And if you will but lend me your gowne,
There is none shall knowe us at fair London towne.

310

“Now horses, and serving-men thou shalt have,
With sumptuous array most gallant and brave;
With crozier, and miter, and rochet, and cope,
Fit to appeare fore our fader the pope.”
Now welcome, sire abbot, the king he did say,
Tis well thou'rt come back to keepe thy day;
For an if thou canst answer my questions three,
Thy life and thy living both saved shall bee.
And first, when thou seest me here in this stead,
With my crown of golde so fair on my head,
Among all my liege-men so noble of birthe,
Tell me to one penny what I am worth.
“For thirty pence our Saviour was sold
Amonge the false Jewes, as I have bin told;
And twenty nine is the worth of thee,
For I thinke, thou art one penny worser than hee.”
The king he laughed, and swore by St. Bittel ,
I did not think I had been worth so littel!
—Now secondly tell me, without any doubt,
How soone I may ride this whole world about.
“You must rise with the sun, and ride with the same,
Until the next morning he riseth againe;

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And then your grace need not make any doubt,
But in twenty-four hours you'll ride it about.”
The king he laughed, and swore by St. Jone,
I did not think, it could be gone so soone!
—Now from the third question thou must not shrinke,
But tell me here truly what I do thinke.
“Yea, that shall I do, and make your grace merry:
You thinke I'm the abbot of Canterbùry;
But I'm his poor shepheard, as plain you may see,
That am come to beg pardon for him and for mee.”
The king he laughed, and swore by the masse,
Ile make thee lord abbot this day in his place!
“Now naye, my liege, be not in such speede,
For alacke I can neither write, ne reade.”
Four nobles a weeke, then I will give thee,
For this merry jest thou hast showne unto mee;
And tell the old abbot when thou comest home,
Thou hast brought him a pardon from good king John.
 

See the collection of Hist. Ballads, 3 vol. 1727. Mr. Wise supposes Olfrey to be a corruption of Alfred, in his pamphlet concerning the White Horse in Berkshire, p. 15.

Meaning probably St. Botolph.


312

VII. YOU MEANER BEAUTIES.

[_]

This little Sonnet was written by Sir Henry Wotton Knight, on that amiable Princess, Elizabeth daughter of James I. and wife of the Elector Palatine, who was chosen King of Bohemia, Sept. 5. 1619. The consequences of this fatal election are well known: Sir Henry Wotton, who in that and the following year was employed in several embassies in Germany on behalf of this unfortunate lady, seems to have had an uncommon attachment to her merit and fortunes, for he gave away a jewel worth a thousand pounds, that was presented to him by the Emperor, “because it came from an enemy to his royal mistress the Queen of Bohemia.”

See Biog. Britan.

This song is printed from the Reliquiæ Wottonianæ 1651. with some corrections from an old MS. copy.

You meaner beauties of the night,
Which poorly satisfie our eies
More by your number, then your light;
You common people of the skies,
What are you when the Sun shall rise?

313

Ye violets that first appeare,
By your pure purple mantles known
Like the proud virgins of the yeare,
As if the Spring were all your own;
What are you when the Rose is blown?
Ye curious chaunters of the wood,
That warble forth dame Nature's layes,
Thinking your passions understood
By your weak accents: what's your praise,
When Philomell her voyce shall raise?
So when my mistris shal be seene
In sweetnesse of her looks and minde;
By virtue first, then choyce a queen;
Tell me, if she was not design'd
Th'eclypse and glory of her kind?

VIII. THE OLD AND YOUNG COURTIER.

[_]

This excellent old song, the subject of which is a comparison between the manners of the old gentry, as still subsisting in the times of Elizabeth, and the modern refinements affected


314

by their sons in the reigns of her successors, is given from an ancient black-letter copy in the Pepys collection, compared with another printed among some miscellaneous “poems and songs” in a book intituled, “Le Prince d' amour.” 1660. 8vo.

An old song made by an aged old pate,
Of an old worshipful gentleman, who had a greate estate,
That kept a brave old house at a bountiful rate,
And an old porter to relieve the poor at his gate;
Like an old courtier of the queen's,
And the queen's old courtier.
With an old lady, whose anger one word asswages;
They every quarter paid their old servants their wages,
And never knew what belong'd to coachmen, footmen, nor pages,
But kept twenty old fellows with blue coats and badges;
Like an old courtier, &c.
With an old study fill'd full of learned old books,
With an old reverend chaplain, you might know him by his looks.
With an old buttery hatch worn quite off the hooks,
And an old kitchen, that maintain'd half a dozen old cocks;
Like an old courtier, &c.

315

With an old hall, hung about with pikes, guns, and bows,
With old swords, and bucklers, that had born many shrewde blows,
And an old frize coat, to cover his worship's trunk hose,
And a cup of old sherry, to comfort his copper nose;
Like an old courtier, &c.
With a good old fashion, when Christmasse was come,
To call in all his old neighbours with bagpipe, and drum,
With good chear enough to furnish every old room,
And old liquor able to make a cat speak, and man dumb,
Like an old courtier, &c.
With an old falconer, huntsman, and a kennel of hounds,
That never hawked, nor hunted, but in his own grounds,
Who, like a wise man, kept himself within his own bounds,
And when he dyed gave every child a thousand good pounds;
Like an old courtier, &c.
But to his eldest son his house and land he assign'd,
Charging him in his will to keep the old bountifull mind,
To be good to his old tenants, and to his neighbours be kind:
But in the ensuing ditty you shall hear how he was inclin'd;
Like a young courtier of the king's,
And the king's young courtier.

316

Like a flourishing young gallant, newly come to his land,
Who keeps a brace of painted madams at his command,
And takes up a thousand pound upon his fathers land,
And gets drunk in a tavern, till he can neither go nor stand;
Like a young courtier, &c.
With a new-fangled lady, that is dainty, nice, and spare,
Who never knew what belong'd to good house-keeping, or care,
Who buyes gaudy-color'd fans to play with wanton air,
And seven or eight different dressings of other womens hair;
Like a young courtier, &c.
With a new-fashion'd hall, built where the old one stood,
Hung round with new pictures, that do the poor no good,
With a fine marble chimney, wherein burns neither coal nor wood,
And a new smooth shovelboard, whereon no victuals ne'er stood;
Like a young courtier, &c.
With a new study, stuft full of pamphlets, and plays,
And a new chaplain, that swears faster than he prays,

317

With a new buttery hatch, that opens once in four or five days,
And a new Frenck cook, to devise fine kickshaws, and toys;
Like a young courtier, &c.
With a new fashion, when Christmas is drawing on,
On a new journey to London straight we all must begone,
And leave none to keep house, but our new porter John,
Who relieves the poor with a thump on the back with a stone;
Like a young courtier, &c.
With a new gentleman-usher, whose carriage is compleat,
With a new coachman, footmen, and pages to carry up the meat,
With a waiting-gentlewoman, whose dressing is very neat,
Who when her lady has din'd, lets the servants not eat;
Like a young courtier, &c.
With new titles of honour bought with his father's old gold,
For which sundry of his ancestors old manors are sold;
And this is the course most of our new gallants hold,
Which makes that good house-keeping is now grown so cold,
Among the young courtiers of the king,
Or the king's young courtiers.

318

IX. SIR JOHN SUCKLING'S CAMPAIGNE.

[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

[_]

When the Scottish covenanters rose up in arms, and advanced to the English borders in 1639, many of the courtiers complimented the king by raising forces at their own expence. Among these none were more distinguished than the gallant Sir John Suckling, who raised a troop of horse, so richly accoutred, that it cost him 12,000 l. The like expensive equipment of other parts of the army, made the king remark, that “the Scots would fight stoutly, if it were but for the Englishmen's fine cloaths.” [Lloyd's memoirs.] When they came to action, the rugged Scots proved more than a match for the fine shewy English: many of whom behaved remarkably ill, and among the rest this splendid troop of Sir John Suckling's.

This humorous pasquil has been generally supposed to have been written by Sir John, as a banter upon himself. Some of his contemporaries however attributed it to Sir John Mennis, a wit of those times, among whose poems it is printed in a small poetical miscellany intitled, “Musarum deliciæ: or the muses recreation, containing several pieces of poetique wit. 2d edition.—By Sir J. M. [Sir John Mennis] and Ja. S. [James Smith.] Lond. 1656. 12mo.”—[See Wood's Athenæ. II. 397. 418.] In that copy is subjoined an additional stanza, which probably was written by this Sir John Mennis, viz.


319

“But now there is peace, he's return'd to increase
“His money, which lately he spent-a,
“But his lost honour must lye still in the dust;
“At Barwick away it went-a.”
Sir John he got him an ambling nag,
To Scotland for to ride-a,
With a hundred horse more, all his own he swore,
To guard him on every side-a.
No Errant-knight ever went to fight
With halfe so gay a bravado,
Had you seen but his look, you'ld have sworn on a book,
Hee'ld have conquer'd a whole armado.
The ladies ran all to the windows to see
So gallant and warlike a sight-a,
And as he pass'd by, they said with a sigh,
Sir John, why will you go fight-a?
But he, like a cruel knight, spurr'd on;
His heart would not relent-a,
For, till he came there, what had he to fear?
Or why should he repent-a?
The king (God bless him!) had singular hopes
Of him and all his troop-a:
The borderers they, as they met him on the way,
For joy did hollow, and whoop-a.

320

None lik'd him so well, as his own colonell,
Who took him for John de Wert-a;
But when there were shows of gunning and blows,
My gallant was so nothing pert-a.
For when the Scots army came within sight,
And all prepared to fight-a,
He ran to his tent, they ask'd what he meant,
He swore he must needs goe sh*te-a.
The colonell sent for him back agen,
To quarter him in the van-a,
But Sir John did swear, he would not come there,
To be kill'd the very first man-a.
To cure his fear, he was sent to the reare,
Some ten miles back, and more-a;
Where Sir John did play at trip and away,
And ne'er saw the enemy more-a.
 

John de Wert was a German general of great reputation, and the terror of the French in the reign of Louis XIII. Hence his name became proverbial in France, where he was called De Vert. See Bayle's dict.


321

X. TO ALTHEA FROM PRISON.

[_]

This excellent sonnet, which possessed a high degree of fame among the old Cavaliers, was written by Colonel Richard Lovelace during his confinement in the gate-house Westminster: to which he was committed by the house of Commons, in April 1642, for presenting a petition from the county of Kent, requesting them to restore the king to his rights, and to settle the government. See Wood's Athenæ, Vol. II. p. 228; where may be seen at large the affecting story of this elegant writer, who after having been distinguished for every gallant and polite accomplishment, the pattern of his own sex, and the darling of the ladies, died in the lowest wretchedness, obscurity, and want, in 1658.

This song is printed from a scarce volume of his poems intitled, “Lucasta, 1649. 12mo.” collated with a copy in the editor's folio MS.

When love with unconfined wings
Hovers within my gates,
And my divine Althea brings
To whisper at my grates;
When I lye tangled in her haire,
And fetter'd with her eye,
The birds that wanton in the aire,
Know no such libertye.

322

When flowing cups run swiftly round
With no allaying thames,
Our carelesse heads with roses crown'd,
Our hearts with loyal flames;
When thirsty griefe in wine we steepe,
When healths and draughts goe free,
Fishes, that tipple in the deepe,
Know no such libertìe.
When, linnet-like, confined I
With shriller note shall sing
The mercye, sweetness, majestye,
And glories of my king;
When I shall voyce aloud how good,
He is, how great should be,
Th'enlarged windes, that curle the flood,
Know no such libertìe.
Stone walls doe not a prison make,
Nor iron barres a cage,
Mindes, innocent, and quiet, take
That for an hermitage:
If I have freedom in my love,
And in my soule am free,
Angels alone, that soare above,
Enjoy such libertìe.
 

with woe-allaying themes. MS.


323

XI. THE DOWNFALL OF CHARING-CROSS.

[_]

Charing-cross, as it stood before the civil wars, was one of those beautiful Gothic obelisks erected to conjugal affection by Edward I. who built such a one wherever the herse of his beloved Eleanor rested in its way from Lincolnshire to Westminster. But neither its ornamental situation, the beauty of its structure, nor the noble design of its erection (which did honour to humanity) could preserve it from the merciless zeal of the times: For in 1642 it was demolished by order of the House of Commons, as popish and superstitious. This occasioned the following not-unhumorous sarcasm, which has been often printed among the popular sonnets of those times.

The plot referred to in ver. 17. was that entered into by Mr. Waller the poet, and others, with a view to reduce the city and tower to the service of the king; for which two of them, Nath. Tomkins, and Rich. Chaloner, suffered death July 5. 1643.

Vid. Ath. Ox. II. 24.
Undone, undone the lawyers are,
They wander about the towne,
Nor can find the way to Westminster,
Now Charing-cross is downe:
At the end of the Strand, they make a stand,
Swearing they are at a loss,
And chassing say, that's not the way,
They must go by Charing-cross.

324

The parliament to vote it down
Conceived it very fitting,
For fear it should fall, and kill them all,
In the house, as they were fitting.
They were told god-wot, it had a plot,
Which made them so hard-hearted,
To give command, it should not stand,
But be taken down and carted.
Men talk of plots, this might have been worse
For any thing I know,
Than that Tomkins, and Chaloner
Were hang'd for long agoe.
Our parliament did that prevent,
And wisely them defended,
For plots they will discover still,
Before they were intended.
But neither man, woman, nor child,
Will say, I'm confident,
They ever heard it speak one word
Against the parliament.
An informer swore, it letters bore,
Or else it had been freed;
In troth I'll take my Bible oath,
It could neither write, nor read.

325

The committee said, that verily
To popery it was bent;
For ought I know, it might be so,
For to church it never went.
What with excise, and such device,
The kingdom doth begin
To think you'll leave them ne'er a cross,
Without doors nor within.
Methinks the common-council shou'd
Of it have taken pity,
'Cause, good old cross, it always stood
So firmly to the city.
Since crosses you so much disdain,
Faith, if I were as you,
For fear the king should rule again,
I'd pull down Tiburn too.
[_]

Whitlocke says, “May 3. 1643, Cheapside cross and other crosses were voted down,” &c.—When this vote was put in execution does not appear, probably not till many months after Tomkins and Chaloner had suffered.

See above ver. 18.

We had a very curious account of the pulling down of Cheapside Cross lately published in one of the numbers of the Gentleman's Magazine, 1766.


326

XII. LOYALTY CONFINED.

[_]

This excellent old song is preserved in David Lloyd's “Memoires of those that suffered in the cause of Charles I.” Lond. 1668. fol. p. 96. He speaks of it as the composition of a worthy personage, who suffered deeply in those times, and was still living with no other reward than the conscience of having suffered. The author's name he has not mentioned, but, if tradition may be credited, this song was written by Sir Roger L'Estrange.—Some mistakes in Lloyd's copy are corrected by two others, one in MS. the other in the Westminster Drollery, or a Choice Collection of Songs and Poems, 1671. 12mo.

Beat on, proud billows; Boreas blow;
Swell, curled waves, high as Jove's roof;
Your incivility doth show,
That innocence is tempest proof;
Though surly Nereus frown, my thoughts are calm;
Then strike, Affliction, for thy wounds are balm.
That which the world miscalls a jail,
A private closet is to me:
Whilst a good conscience is my bail,
And innocence my liberty:

327

Locks, bars, and solitude together met,
Make me no prisoner, but an anchoret.
I, whilst I wisht to be retir'd,
Into this private room was turn'd;
As if their wisdoms had conspir'd
The salamander should be burn'd;
Or like those sophists, that would drown a fish,
I am constrain'd to suffer what I wish.
The cynick loves his poverty;
The pelican her wilderness;
And 'tis the Indian's pride to be
Naked on frozen Caucasus:
Contentment cannot smart, Stoicks we see
Make torments easie to their apathy.
These manacles upon my arm
I, as my mistress' favours, wear;
And for to keep my ancles warm,
I have some iron shackles there:
These walls are but my garrison; this cell,
Which men call jail, doth prove my citadel.
I'm in the cabinet lockt up,
Like some high-prized margarite,
Or, like the great mogul or pope,
Am cloyster'd up from publick sight:

328

Retirement is a piece of majesty,
And thus, proud sultan, I'm as great as thee.
Here sin for want of food must starve,
Where tempting objects are not seen;
And these strong walls do only serve
To keep vice out, and keep me in:
Malice of late's grown charitable sure,
I'm not committed, but am kept secure.
So he that struck at Jason's life,
Thinking t'have made his purpose sure,
By a malicious friendly knife
Did only wound him to a cure:
Malice, I see, wants wit; for what is meant
Mischief, oftimes proves favour by th'event.
When once my prince affliction hath,
Prosperity doth treason seem;
And to make smooth so rough a path,
I can learn patience from him:
Now not to suffer shews no loyal heart,
When kings want ease subjects must bear a part.
What though I cannot see my king
Neither in person or in coin;
Yet contemplation is a thing,
That renders what I have not, mine:

329

My king from me what adamant can part,
Whom I do wear engraven on my heart?
Have you not seen the nightingale,
A prisoner like, coopt in a cage,
How doth she chaunt her wonted tale
In that her narrow hermitage?
Even then her charming melody doth prove,
That all her bars are trees, her cage a grove.
I am that bird, whom they combine
Thus to deprive of liberty;
But though they do my corps confine,
Yet maugre heat, my soul is free:
And though immur'd, yet can I chirp, and sing
Disgrace to rebels, glory to my king.
My soul is free, as ambient air,
Although my baser part's immew'd,
Whilst loyal thoughts do still repair
T'accompany my solitude:
Although rebellion do my body binde,
My king alone can captivate my minde.

330

XIII. VERSES BY K. CHARLES I.

[_]

“This prince, like his father, did not confine himself to prose: Bishop Burnet has given as a pathetic elegy said to be written by Charles in Carisbrook castle [in 1648.] The poetry is most uncouth and unharmonious, but there are strong thoughts in it, some good sense, and a strain of majestic piety.”

Mr. Walpole's Royal and Noble Authors, vol. I.

It is in his “Memoirs of the Dukes of Hamilton,” p. 379. that Burnet hath preserved this elegy, which he tells us he had from a gentleman, who waited on the king at the time when it was written, and copied it out from the original. It is there intitled “MAJESTY IN MISERY: OR AN IMPLORATION TO THE KING OF KINGS.”

Hume hath remarked of these stanzas, “that the truth of the sentiment, rather than the elegance of the expression, renders them very pathetic.” See his hist. 1763. 4to. vol. 5. p. 437. 442. which is no bad comment upon them. —These are almost the only verses known of Charles's composure. Indeed a little Poem On a quiet Conscience, printed in the Poetical Calendar, 1763. vol. 8th. is attributed to K. Charles I; but I know not upon what authority.

Great monarch of the world, from whose power springs
The potency and power of kings,
Record the royal woe my suffering sings;

331

And teach my tongue, that ever did confine
Its faculties in truth's seraphick line,
To track the treasons of thy foes and mine.
Nature and law, by thy divine decree,
(The only root of righteous royaltie)
With this dim diadem invested me:
With it, the sacred scepter, purple robe,
The holy unction, and the royal globe:
Yet am I levell'd with the life of Job.
The fiercest furies, that do daily tread
Upon my grief, my gray discrowned head,
Are those that owe my bounty for their bread.
They raise a war, and christen it the cause,
While sacrilegious hands have best applause,
Plunder and murder are the kingdom's laws;
Tyranny bears the title of taxation,
Revenge and robbery are reformation,
Oppression gains the name of sequestration.
My loyal subjects, who in this bad season
Attend me (by the law of God and reason),
They dare impeach, and punish for high treason.

332

Next at the clergy do their furies frown,
Pious episcopacy must go down,
They will destroy the crosier and the crown.
Churchmen are chain'd, and schismaticks are freed,
Mechanicks preach, and holy fathers bleed,
The crown is crucified with the creed.
The church of England doth all factions foster,
The pulpit is usurpt by each impostor,
Extempore excludes the Pater-noster.
The Presbyter, and Independent seed
Springs with broad blades. To make the religion bleed
Herod and Pontius Pilate are agreed.
The corner stone's misplac'd by every pavier:
With such a bloody method and behaviour
Their ancestors did crucifie our Saviour.
My royal consort, from whose fruitful womb
So many princes legally have come,
Is forc'd in pilgrimage to seek a tomb.
Great Britain's heir is forced into France,
Whilst on his father's head his foes advance:
Poor child! he weeps out his inheritance.

333

With my own power my majesty they wound,
In the king's name the king himself's uncrown'd:
So doth the dust destroy the diamond.
With propositions daily they enchant
My people's ears, such as do reason daunt,
And the Almighty will not let me grant.
They promise to erect my royal stem,
To make me great, t'advance my diadem,
If I will first fall down, and worship them!
But for refusal they devour my thrones,
Distress my children, and destroy my bones;
I fear they'll force me to make bread of stones.
My life they prize at such a slender rate,
That in my absence they draw bills of hate,
To prove the king a traytor to the state.
Felons obtain more privilege than I,
They are allow'd to answer ere they die;
'Tis death for me to ask the reason, why.
But, sacred Saviour, with thy words I woo
Thee to forgive, and not be bitter to
Such, as thou know'st do not know what they do.

334

For since they from their lord are so disjointed,
As to contemn those edicts he appointed,
How can they prize the power of his anointed?
Augment my patience, nullifie my hate,
Preserve my issue, and inspire my mate,
Yet though we perish, bless this church and state.

XIV. THE SALE OF REBELLIOUS HOUSHOLD-STUFF

[_]

This sarcastic exultation of triumphant loyalty, is printed from an old black-letter copy in the Pepys collection, corrected by two others, one of which is preserved in “A choice collection of 120 loyal songs, &c.” 1684. 12mo.—To the tune of Old Simon the king.

Rebellion hath broken up house,
And hath left me old lumber to sell;
Come hither, and take your choice,
I'll promise to use you well:
Will you buy the old speaker's chair?
Which was warm and easie to sit in,
And oft hath been clean'd I declare,
When as it was fouler than sitting.
Says old Simon the king, &c.

335

Will you buy any bacon-flitches,
The fattest, that ever were spent?
They're the sides of the old committees,
Fed up in the long parliament.
Here's a pair of bellows, and tongs,
And for a small matter I'll sell ye 'um;
They are made of the presbyters lungs,
To blow up the coals of rebellion.
Says old Simon, &c.
I had thought to have given them once
To some black-smith for his forge,
But now I have considered on't,
They are consecrate to the church:
So I'll give them unto some quire,
They will make the big organs roar,
And the little pipes to squeeke higher,
Than ever they could before.
Says old Simon, &c.
Here's a couple of stools for sale,
One's square, and t'other is round;
Betwixt them both the tail
Of the Rump fell down to the ground.
Will you buy the states council-table,
Which was made of the good wain Scot?
The frame was a tottering Babel
To uphold the Independent plot.
Says old Simon, &c.

336

Here's the beesom of Reformation,
Which should have made clean the floor,
But it swept the wealth out of the nation,
And left us dirt good store.
Will you buy the states spinning-wheel,
Which spun for the ropers trade?
But better it had stood still,
For now it has spun a fair thread.
Says old Simon, &c.
Here's a glyster-pipe well try'd,
Which was made of a butcher's stump ,
And has been safely apply'd,
To cure the colds of the rump.
Here's a lump of Pilgrims-Salve,
Which once was a justice of peace,
Who Noll and the Devil did serve;
But now it is come to this.
Says old Simon, &c.
Here's a roll of the states tobacco,
If any good fellow will take it;
No Virginia had e'er such a smack-o,
And I'll tell you how they did make it:

337

'Tis th'Engagement, and Covenant cookt
Up with the Abjuration oath;
And many of them, that have took't,
Complain it was foul in the mouth.
Says old Simon, &c.
Yet the ashes may happily serve
To cure the scab of the nation,
Whene'er 't has an itch to swerve
To Rebellion by Innovation.
A Lanthorn here is to be bought,
The like was scarce ever gotten,
For many plots it has found out
Before they ever were thought on.
Says old Simon, &c.
Will you buy the rump's great saddle,
With which it jocky'd the nation?
And here is the bitt, and the bridle,
And curb of Dissimulation:
And here's the trunk-hose of the rump,
And their fair dissembling cloak,
And a Presbyterian jump,
With an Independent smock.
Says old Simon, &c.
Will you buy a Conscience oft turn'd,
Which serv'd the high-court of justice,
And stretch'd until England it mourn'd:
But Hell will buy that if the worst is.

338

Here's Joan Cromwell's kitching-stuff tub,
Wherein is the fat of the Rumpers,
With which old Noll's horns she did rub,
When she was got drunk with false bumpers.
Says old Simon, &c.
Here's the purse of the public faith;
Here's the model of the Sequestration,
When the old wives upon their good troth,
Lent thimbles to ruine the nation.
Here's Dick Cromwell's Protectorship,
And here are Lambert's commissions,
And here is Hugh Peters his scrip
Cramm'd with the tumultuous Petitions.
Says old Simon, &c.
And here are old Noll's brewing vessels,
And here are his dray, and his slings;
Here are Hewson's awl, and his bristles;
With diverse other odd things:
And what is the price doth belong
To all these matters before ye?
I'll sell them all for an old song,
And so I do end my story.
Says old Simon, &c.
 

Alluding probably to Major-General Harrison a butcher's son, who assisted Cromwell in turning out the long parliament, Ap. 20. 1653.

This was a cant name given to Cromwell's wife by the Royalists, tho' her name was Elizabeth: to the latter part of the verse hangs some tale that is now forgotten.

See Grey's Hudibras, Pt. 1. Cant. 2. ver. 570. &c.

Cromwell had in his younger years followed the brewing trade at Huntingdon. Col. Hewson is said to have been originally a cobler.

Cromwell had in his younger years followed the brewing trade at Huntingdon. Col Hewson is said to have been originally a cobler.


339

XV. THE BAFFLED KNIGHT, OR LADY'S POLICY.

[_]

Given (with some corrections) from a MS copy, and collated with two printed ones in Roman character in the Pepys collection.

There was a knight was drunk with wine,
A riding along the way, sir;
And there he met with a lady fine,
Among the cocks of hay, sir.
Shall you and I, O lady faire,
Among the grass lye downe-a:
And I will have a special care
Of rumpling of your gowne-a.
Upon the grass there is a dewe,
Will spoil my damask gowne, sir:
My gown, and kirtle they are newe,
And cost me many a crowne, sir.
I have a cloak of scarlet red,
Upon the ground I'll throwe it;
Then, lady faire, come lay thy head;
We'll play, and none shall knowe it.

340

O yonder stands my steed so free
Among the cocks of hay, sir;
And if the pinner should chance to see,
He'll take my steed away, sir.
Upon my finger I have a ring,
Its made of finest gold-a;
And, lady, it thy steed shall bring
Out of the pinner's fold-a.
O go with me to my father's hall;
Fair chambers there are three, sir:
And you shall have the best of all,
And I'll your chamberlaine bee, sir.
He mounted himself on his steed so tall,
And her on her dapple gray, sir:
And there they rode to her father's hall,
Fast pricking along the way, sir.
To her father's hall they arrived strait;
'Twas moated round about-a;
She slipped herself within the gate,
And lockt the knight without-a.
Here is a silver penny to spend,
And take it for your pain, sir;
And two of my father's men I'll send
To wait on you back again, sir.

341

He from his scabbard drew his brand,
And whet it upon his sleeve-a:
And cursed, he said, be every man,
That will a maid believe-a!
She drew a bodkin from her haire,
And whip'd it upon her gown-a;
And curst be every maiden faire,
That will with men lye down-a!
A tree there is, that lowly grows,
And some do call it rue, sir:
The smallest dunghill cock that crows,
Would make a capon of you, sir.
A flower there is, that shineth bright,
Some call it mary-gold-a:
He that wold not when he might,
He shall not when he wold-a.
The knight was riding another day,
With cloak and hat and feather:
He met again with that lady gay,
Who was angling in the river.
Now, lady faire, I've met with you,
You shall no more escape me;
Remember, how not long agoe
You falsely did intrap me.

342

The lady blushed scarlet red,
And trembled at the stranger:
How shall I guard my maidenhed
From this approaching danger?
He from his saddle down did light,
In all his riche attyer;
And cryed, As I am a noble knight,
I do thy charms admyer.
He took the lady by the hand,
Who seemingly consented;
And would no more disputing stand:
She had a plot invented.
Looke yonder, good sir knight, I pray,
Methinks I now discover
A riding upon his dapple gray,
My former constant lover.
On tip-toe peering stood the knight,
Fast by the rivers brink-a;
The lady pusht with all her might:
Sir knight, now swim or sink-a.
O'er head and ears he plunged in,
The bottom faire he sounded;
Then rising up, he cried amain,
Help, helpe, or else I'm drowned!

343

Now, fare-you-well, sir knight, adieu!
You see what comes of fooling:
That is the fittest place for you;
Your courage wanted cooling.
Ere many days, in her fathers park,
Just at the close of eve-a,
Again she met with her angry sparke;
Which made this lady grieve-a.
False lady, here thou'rt in my powre,
And no one now can hear thee:
And thou shalt sorely rue the hour,
That e'er thou dar'dst to jeer me.
I pray, sir knight, be not so warm
With a young silly maid-a:
I vow and swear I thought no harm,
'Twas a gentle jest I playd-a.
A gentle jest, in soothe! he cry'd,
To tumble me in and leave me:
What if I had in the river dy'd?—
That fetch will not deceive me.
Once more I'll pardon thee this day,
Tho' injur'd out of measure;
But then prepare without delay
To yield thee to my pleasure.

344

Well then, if I must grant your suit,
Yet think of your boots and spurs, sir:
Let me pull off both spur and boot,
Or else you cannot stir, sir.
He set him down upon the grass,
And begg'd her kind assistance:
Now, smiling thought this lovely lass,
I'll make you keep your distance.
Then pulling off his boots half-way;
Sir knight, now I'm your betters:
You shall not make of me your prey;
Sit there like a knave in fetters.
The knight when she had served soe,
He fretted, fum'd, and grumbled:
For he could neither stand nor goe,
But like a cripple tumbled.
Farewell, sir knight, the clock strikes ten,
Yet do not move nor stir, sir:
I'll send you my father's serving men,
To pull off your boots and spurs, sir.
This merry jest you must excuse,
You are but a stingless nettle:
You'd never have stood for boots or shoes,
Had you been a man of mettle.

345

All night in grievous rage he lay,
Rolling upon the plain-a;
Next morning a shepherd past that way,
Who set him right again-a.
Then mounting upon his steed so tall,
By hill and dale he swore-a:
I'll ride at once to her father's hall;
She shall escape no more-a.
I'll take her father by the beard,
I'll challenge all her kindred;
Each dastard soul shall stand affeard;
My wrath shall no more be hindred.
He rode unto her father's house,
Which every side was moated:
The lady heard his furious vows,
And all his vengeance noted.
Thought shee, sir knight, to quench your rage,
Once more I will endeavour;
This water shall your fury 'swage,
Or else it shall burn for ever.
Then faining penitence and feare,
She did invite a parley:
Sir knight, if you'll forgive me heare,
Henceforth I'll love you dearly.

346

My father he is now from home,
And I am all alone, sir:
Therefore a-cross the water come;
And I am all your own, sir.
False maid, thou canst no more deceive;
I scorn the treacherous bait-a:
If thou would'st have me thee believe,
Now open me the gate-a.
The bridge is drawn, the gate is barr'd,
My father he has the keys, sir.
But I have for my love prepar'd
A shorter way and easier.
Over the moate I've laid a plank
Full seventeen feet in measure:
Then step a-cross to the other bank,
And there we'll take our pleasure.
These words she had no sooner spoke,
But strait he came tripping over:
The plank was saw'd, it snapping broke;
And sous'd the unhappy lover.

347

XVI. WHY SO PALE?

[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

[_]

From Sir John Suckling's poems. This sprightly knight was born in 1613, and cut off by a fever about the 29th year of his age. See above, pag. 318.

Why so pale and wan, fond lover?
Prethee, why so pale?
Will, when looking well can't move her,
Looking ill prevail?
Prethee why so pale?
Why so dull and mute, young sinner?
Prethee why so mute?
Will, when speaking well can't win her,
Saying nothing doe't?
Prethee why so mute?
Quit, quit for shame; this will not move,
This cannot take her;
If of herself she will not love,
Nothing can make her.
The devil take her!

348

XVII. OLD TOM OF BEDLAM.

Mad song the first.

[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

[_]

It is worth attention, that the English have more songs and ballads on the subject of madness, than any of their neighbours. Whether it is that we are more liable to this calamity than other nations, or whether our native gloominess hath peculiarly recommended subjects of this cast to our writers, the fact is incontestable, as any one may be satisfied, who will compare the printed collections of French, Italian Songs, &c. with those in our language.

Out of a much larger quantity, we have selected half a dozen mad songs for these volumes. The three first are originals in their respective kinds; the merit of the three last is chiefly that of imitation. They were written at considerable intervals of time; but we have here grouped them together, that the reader may the better examine their comparative merits. He may consider them as so many trials of skill in a very peculiar subject, as the contest of so many rivals to shoot in the bow of Ulysses. The two first were probably written about the beginning of the last century; the third about the middle of it; the fourth and sixth towards the end; and the fifth within this present century.

This is given from the editor's folio MS. compared with two or three old printed copies.—With regard to the author of this old rhapsody, in Walton's Compleat Angler, cap. 3. is


349

a song in praise of angling, which the author says was made at his request “by Mr. William Basse, one that has made the choice songs of the Hunter in his career, and of Tom of Bedlam, and many others of note.”

p. 84. See Mr. Hawkins's curious Edition, 8vo. of this excellent old Piece.
Forth from my sad and darksome cell,
Or from the deepe abysse of hell,
Mad Tom is come into the world againe
To see if he can cure his distempered braine.
Feares and cares oppresse my soule:
Harke, howe the angrye Fureys houle!
Pluto laughes, and Proserpine is gladd
To see poore naked Tom of Bedlam madd.
Through the world I wander night and day
To seeke my straggling senses,
In an angrye moode I mett old Time,
With his pentarchye of tenses:
When me he spyed,
Away he hyed,
For time will stay for no man:
In vaine with cryes
I rent the skyes,
For pity is not common.
Cold and comfortless I lye:
Helpe, oh helpe! or else I dye!

350

Harke! I heare Apollo's teame,
The carman 'gins to whistle;
Chast Diana bends her bowe,
The boare begins to bristle.
Come, Vulcan, with tools and with tackles,
To knocke off my troublesome shackles;
Bid Charles make ready his waine
To fetch me my senses againe.
Last night I heard the dog-star bark;
Mars met Venus in the darke;
Limping Vulcan het an iron barr,
And furiouslye made at the god of war:
Mars with his weapon laid about,
But Vulcan's temples had the gout,
For his broad horns did so hang in his light,
He could not see to aim his blowes aright:
Mercurye the nimble post of heaven,
Stood still to see the quarrell;
Gorrel-bellyed Bacchus, gyant-like,
Bestryd a strong-beere barrell.
To mee he dranke,
I did him thanke,
But I could get no cyder;

351

He dranke whole butts
Till he burst his gutts,
But mine were ne'er the wyder.
Poore naked Tom is very drye:
A little drinke for charitye!
Harke, I hear Acteons horne!
The huntsmen whoop and hallowe:
Ringwood, Royster, Bowman, Jowler,
All the chase do followe.
The man in the moone drinkes clarret,
Eates powder'd beef, turnip, and carret,
But a cup of old Malaga sacke
Will fire the bushe at his backe.

XVIII. THE DISTRACTED PURITAN,

Mad song the second.

[_]

—was written about the beginning of the seventeenth century by the witty bishop Corbet, and is printed from the 3d edition of his poems, 12mo. 1672, compared with a more ancient copy in the editor's folio MS.


352

Am I mad, O noble Festus,
When zeal and godly knowledge
Have put me in hope
To deal with the pope,
As well as the best in the college?
Boldly I preach, hate a cross, hate a surplice,
Mitres, copes, and rochets;
Come hear me pray nine times a day,
And fill your heads with crochets.
In the house of pure Emanuel
I had my education,
Where my friends surmise
I dazel'd my eyes
With the sight of revelation.
Boldly I preach, &c.
They bound me like a bedlam,
They lash'd my four poor quarters;
Whilst this I endure,
Faith makes me sure
To be one of Foxes martyrs.
Boldly I preach, &c.
These injuries I suffer.
Through antichrist's perswasion:

353

Take off this chain,
Neither Rome nor Spain
Can resist my strong invasion.
Boldly I preach, &c.
Of the beasts ten horns (God bless us!)
I have knock'd off three already;
If they let me alone
I'll leave him none:
But they say I am too heady.
Boldly I preach, &c.
When I sack'd the seven-hill'd city,
I met the great red dragon;
I kept him aloof
With the armour of proof,
Though here I have never a rag on.
Boldly I preach, &c.
With a fiery sword and target,
There fought I with this monster:
But the sons of pride
My zeal deride,
And all my deeds misconster.
Boldly I preach, &c.
I un-hors'd the Whore of Babel,
With the lance of Inspiration;

354

I made her stink,
And spill the drink
In her cup of abomination.
Boldly I preach, &c.
I have seen two in a vision
With a flying book between them.
I have been in despair
Five times in a year,
And been cur'd by reading Greenham .
Boldly I preach, &c.
I observ'd in Perkins tables
The black line of damnation;
Those crooked veins
So stuck in my brains,
That I fear'd my reprobation.
Boldly I preach, &c.

355

In the holy tongue of Canaan
I plac'd my chiefest pleasure:
Till I prick'd my foot
With an Hebrew root,
That I bled beyond all measure.
Boldly I preach, &c.
I appear'd before the archbishop ,
And all the high commission;
I gave him no grace;
But told him to his face,
That he favour'd superstition.
Boldly I preach, hate a cross, hate a surplice,
Miters, copes, and rotchets:
Come hear me pray nine times a day,
And fill your heads with crotchets.
 

Emanuel college Cambridge was originally a seminary of Puritans.

Alluding to some visionary exposition of Zech. ch. v. ver. 1. or, if the date of this song would permit, one might suppose it aimed at one Coppe, a strange enthusiast, whose life may be seen in Wood's Athen. vol. 2. p. 501. He was author of a book intitled, “The fiery flying Roll:” and afterwards published a Recantation, part of whose Title is, “The fiery flying Roll's wings clipt,” &c.

See Greenham's works, fol. 1605. particularly the tract intitled, “A swert comfort for an afflicted conscience.”

See Perkins's works, fol. 1626. vol. 1. p. 11; where is a large half-sheet folded, containing “A survey, or table declaring the order of the causes of salvation, and damnation, &c.” the pedigree of damnation being distinguished by a broad black zig-zag line.

Laud.


356

XIX. THE LUNATIC LOVER,

Mad song the third,

[_]

—is given from an old printed copy in the British Museum, compared with another in the Pepys collection; both in black letter.

Grim king of the ghosts, make haste,
And bring hither all your train;
See how the pale moon does waste,
And just now is in the wane.
Come, you night-hags, with all your charms,
And revelling witches away,
And hug me close in your arms;
To you my respects I'll pay.
I'll court you, and think you fair,
Since love does distract my brain:
I'll go, I'll wed the night-mare,
And kiss her, and kiss her again:

357

But if she prove peevish and proud,
Then, a pise on her love! let her go;
I'll seek me a winding shroud,
And down to the shades below.
A lunacy sad I endure,
Since reason departs away;
I call to those hags for a cure,
As knowing not what I say.
The beauty, whom I do adore,
Now slights me with scorn and disdain;
I never shall see her more:
Ah! how shall I bear my pain!
I ramble, and range about
To find out my charming saint;
While she at my grief does flout,
And smiles at my loud complaint.
Distraction I see is my doom,
Of this I am now too sure;
A rival is got in my room,
While torments I do endure.
Strange fancies do fill my head,
While wandering in despair,
I am to the desarts lead,
Expecting to find her there.

358

Methinks in a spangled cloud
I see her enthroned on high;
Then to her I crie aloud,
And labour to reach the sky.
When thus I have raved awhile,
And wearyed myself in vain,
I lye on the barren soil,
And bitterly do complain.
Till slumber hath quieted me,
In sorrow I sigh and weep;
The clouds are my canopy
To cover me while I sleep.
I dream that my charming fair
Is then in my rival's bed,
Whose tresses of golden hair
Are on the fair pillow bespread.
Then this doth my passion inflame,
I start, and no longer can lie:
Ah! Sylvia, art thou not to blame
To ruin a lover? I cry.
Grim king of the ghosts, be true,
And hurry me hence away,
My languishing life to you
A tribute I freely pay.

359

To the elysian shades I post
In hopes to be freed from care,
Where many a bleeding ghost
Is hovering in the air.

XX. THE LADY DISTRACTED WITH LOVE,

Mad Song the fourth,

[_]

—was originally sung in one of Tom D'urfey's comedies of Don Quixote acted in 1694 and 1696; and probably composed by himself. In the several stanzas, the author represents his pretty Mad-woman as 1. sullenly mad: 2. mirthfully mad: 3. melancholy mad: 4. fantastically mad: and 5. stark mad. Both this, and Num. XXII. are printed from D'urfey's “Pills to purge Melancholy.” 1719. vol. I.

From rosie bowers, where sleeps the god of love,
Hither, ye little wanton cupids, fly;
Teach me in soft melodious strains to move
With tender passion my heart's darling joy:
Ah! let the soul of musick tune my voice,
To win dear Strephon, who my soul enjoys.

360

Or, if more influencing
Is to be brisk and airy,
With a step and a bound,
With a frisk from the ground,
I'll trip like any fairy.
As once on Ida dancing
Were three celestial bodies:
With an air, and a face,
And a shape, and a grace,
I'll charm, like beauty's goddess.
Ah! 'tis in vain! 'tis all, 'tis all in vain!
Death and despair must end the fatal pain:
Cold, cold despair, disguis'd like snow and rain,
Falls on my breast; bleak winds in tempests blow;
My veins all shiver, and my fingers glow;
My pulse beats a dead march for lost repose,
And to a solid lump of ice my poor fond heart is froze.
Or say, ye powers, my peace to crown,
Shall I thaw myself, and drown
Among the foaming billows?
Increasing all with tears I shed,
On beds of ooze, and crystal pillows
Lay down, lay down my lovesick head?
No, no, I'll strait run mad, mad, mad,
That soon my heart will warm;

361

When once the sense is fled, is fled,
Love has no power to charm.
Wild thro' the woods I'll fly, I'll fly,
Robes, locks—shall thus—be tore!
A thousand, thousand times I'll dye
Ere thus, thus, in vain,—ere thus in vain adore.

XXI. THE DISTRACTED LOVER,

Mad Song the fifth,

[_]

—was written by Henry Carey, a celebrated composer of Music at the beginning of this century, and author of several little Theatrical Entertainments, which the reader may find enumerated in the “Companion to the Play-house,” &c. The sprightliness of this Songster's fancy could not preserve him from a very melancholy catastrophe, which was effected by his own hand. In his Poems, 4 to. Lond. 1729, may be seen another Mad-Song of this author begining thus,

“Gods! I can never this endure,
“Death alone must be my cure, &c.
I go to the Elysian shade,
Where sorrow ne'er shall wound me;
Where nothing shall my rest invade,
But joy shall still surround me.

362

I fly from Celia's cold disdain,
From her disdain I fly;
She is the cause of all my pain,
For her alone I die.
Her eyes are brighter than the mid-day sun,
When he but half his radiant course has run,
When his meridian glories gaily shine,
And gild all nature with a warmth divine,
See yonder river's flowing tide,
Which now so full appears;
Those streams, that do so swiftly glide,
Are nothing but my tears.
There I have wept till I could weep no more,
And curst mine eyes, when they have wept their store,
Then, like the clouds, that rob the azure main,
I've drain'd the flood to weep it back again.
Pity my pains,
Ye gentle swains!
Cover me with ice and snow,
I scorch, I burn, I flame, I glow!
Furies, tear me,
Quickly bear me
To the dismal shades below!
Where yelling, and howling

363

And grumbling, and growling
Strike the ear with horrid woe.
Hissing snakes,
Fiery lakes
Would be a pleasure, and a cure:
Not all the hells,
Where Pluto dwells,
Can give such pain as I endure.
To some peaceful plain convey me,
On a mossey carpet lay me,
Fan me with ambrosial breeze,
Let me die, and so have ease!

XXII. THE FRANTIC LADY,

Mad Song the sixth.

[_]

This, like Num. XX, was originally sung in one of D'urfey's Comedies of Don Quixote, (first acted about the year 1694), and was probably composed by that popular Songster, who died Feb. 26. 1723.

This is printed from the “Hive, a Collection of Songs,” 4 vol. 1721. 12mo. where may be found two or three other Mad Songs not admitted into these Volumes.


364

I burn, my brain consumes to ashes!
Each eye-ball too like lightning flashes!
Within my breast there glows a solid fire,
Which in a thousand ages can't expire!
Blow, blow, the winds' great ruler!
Bring the Po, and the Ganges hither,
'Tis sultry weather,
Pour them all on my soul,
It will hiss like a coal,
But be never the cooler.
'Twas pride hot as hell,
That first made me rebell,
From love's awful throne a curst angel I fell;
And mourn now my fate,
Which myself did create:
Fool, fool, that consider'd not when I was well!
Adieu! ye vain transporting joys!
Off ye vain fantastic toys!
That dress this face—this body—to allure!
Bring me daggers, poison, fire!
Since scorn is turn'd into desire.
All hell feels not the rage, which I, poor I, endure.

365

XXIII. LILLI BURLERO.

[_]

The following rhymes, slight and insignificant as they may now seem, had once a more powerful effect than either the Philippies of Demosthenes, or Cicero; and contributed not a little towards the great revolution in 1688. Let us hear a contemporary writer.

“A foolish ballad was made at that time, treating the Papists, and chiefly the Irish, in a very ridiculous manner, which had a burden said to be Irish words, “Lero, lero, liliburlero,” that made an impression on the [king's] army, that cannot be imagined by those that saw it not. The whole army, and at last the people both in city and country, were singing it perpetually. And perhaps never had so slight a thing so great an effect.”

Burnet.

It was written on occasion of the king's nominating to the lieutenancy of Ireland in 1686, general Talbot, newly created earl of Tyrconnel, a furious Papist, who had recommended himself to his bigotted master by his arbitrary treatment of the Protestants in the preceding year, when only lieutenant general; and whose subsequent conduct fully justified his expectations and their fears. The violences of his administration may be seen in any of the histories of those timts: particularly in bishop King's “State of the protestants in Ireland.”

1691. 4to.

Lilliburlero and Bullen-a-lah are said to have been the words of distinction used among the Irish Papists in their massacre of the Protestants in 1641.


366

Ho! broder Teague, dost hear de decree!
Lilli burlero bullen a-la.
Dat we shall have a new deputie,
Lilli burlero bullen a-la.
Lero lero, lilli burlero, lero lero, bullen a-la,
Lero lero, lilli burlero, lero lero, bullen a-la.
Ho! by shaint Tyburn, it is de Talbote:
Lilli, &c.
And he will cut all de English troate.
Lilli, &c.
Dough by my shoul de English do praat,
Lilli, &c.
De law's on dare side, and Creish knows what.
Lilli, &c.
But if dispence do come from de pope,
Lilli, &c.
We'll hang Magna Charta, and dem in a rope.
Lilli, &c.
For de good Talbot is made a lord,
Lilli, &c.
And with brave lads is coming aboard:
Lilli, &c.
Who all in France have taken a sware,
Lilli, &c.

367

Dat dey will have no protestant heir.
Lilli, &c.
Ara! but why does he stay behind?
Lilli, &c.
Ho! by my shoul 'tis a protestant wind.
Lilli, &c.
But see de Tyrconnel is now come ashore,
Lilli, &c.
And we shall have commissions gillore.
Lilli, &c.
And he dat will not go to de mass,
Lilli, &c.
Shall be turn out, and look like an ass,
Lilli, &c.
Now, now de hereticks all go down,
Lilli, &c.
By Chrish and shaint Patrick, de nation's our own.
Lilli, &c.
Dare was an old prophesy found in a bog,
Lilli, &c.
“Ireland shall be rul'd by an ass, and a dog.”
Lilli, &c.

368

And now dis prophesy is come to pass,
Lilli, &c.
For Talbot's de dog, and Ja---s is de ass.
Lilli, &c.

XXIV. THE BRAES OF YARROW,

In imitation of the ancient Scots manner,

[_]

—was written by William Hamilton of Bangour, Esq; who died March 25. 1754. aged 50. It is printed from an elegant edition of his Poems published at Edinburgh, 1760, 12mo.

A.
Busk ye, busk ye, my bonny bonny bride,
Busk ye, busk ye, my winsome marrow,
Busk ye, busk ye, my bonny bonny bride,
And think nae mair on the Braes of Yarrow.

B.
Where gat ye that bonny bonny bride?
Where gat ye that winsome marrow?

A.
I gat her where I dare na weil be seen,
Puing the birks on the Braes of Yarrow.


369

Weep not, weep not, my bonny bonny bride,
Weep not, weep not, my winsome marrow;
Nor let thy heart lament to leive
Puing the birks on the Braes of Yarrow.
B.
Why does she weep, thy bonny bonny bride?
Why does she weep thy winsome marrow?
And why dare ye nae mair weil be seen
Puing the birks on the Braes of Yarrow?

A.
Lang maun she weep, lang maun she, maun she weep,
Lang maun she weep with dule and sorrow;
And lang maun I nae mair weil be seen
Puing the birks on the Braes of Yarrow.
For she has tint her luver, luver dear,
Her luver dear, the cause of sorrow,
And I hae slain the comliest swain
That eir pu'd birks on the Braes of Yarrow.
Why rins thy stream, O Yarrow, Yarrow, reid?
Why on thy braes heard the voice of sorrow?
And why yon melancholious weids
Hung on the bonny birks of Yarrow?
What's yonder floats on the rueful rueful flude?
What's yonder floats? O dule and sorrow!
O 'tis he the comely swain I slew
Upon the duleful Braes of Yarrow.

370

Wash, O wash his wounds, his wounds in tears,
His wounds in tears with dule and sorrow;
And wrap his limbs in mourning weids,
And lay him on the Braes of Yarrow.
Then build, then build, ye sisters, sisters sad,
Ye sisters sad, his tomb with sorrow;
And weep around in waeful wise
His hapless fate on the Braes of Yarrow.
Curse ye, curse ye, his useless, useless shield,
My arm that wrought the deed of sorrow,
The fatal spear that pierc'd his breast,
His comely breast on the Braes of Yarrow.
Did I not warn thee, not to, not to luve?
And warn from fight? but to my sorrow
Too rashly bauld a stronger arm
Thou mett'st, and fell'st on the Braes of Yarrow.
Sweet smells the birk, green grows, green grows the grass,
Yellow on Yarrow's bank the gowan,
Fair hangs the apple frae the rock,
Sweet the wave of Yarrow flowan.
Flows Yarrow sweet? as sweet, as sweet flows Tweed,
As green its grass, its gowan as yellow,

371

As sweet smells on its braes the birk,
The apple frae its rock as mellow.
Fair was thy luve, fair fair indeed thy luve,
In flow'ry bands thou didst him fetter;
Tho' he was fair, and weil beluv'd again
Than me he never luv'd thee better.
Busk ye, then busk, my bouny bonny bride,
Busk ye, busk ye, my winsome marrow,
Busk ye, and luve me on the banks of Tweed,
And think nae mair on the Braes of Yarrow.

C.
How can I busk a bonny bonny bride?
How can I busk a winsome marrow?
How luve him upon the banks of Tweed,
That slew my luve on the Braes of Yarrow?

O Yarrow fields, may never never rain,
Now dew thy tender blossoms cover,
For there was basely slain my luve,
My luve, as he had not been a lover.
The boy put on his robes, his robes of green,
His purple vest, 'twas my awn sewing:
Ah! wretched me! I little, little kenn'd
He was in these to meet his ruin.

372

The boy took out his milk-white, milk-white steed,
Unheedful of my dule and sorrow;
But ere the toofall of the night
He lay a corps on the Braes of Yarrow.
Much I rejoyc'd that waeful waeful day;
I sang, my voice the woods returning:
But lang ere night the spear was flown,
That slew my luve, and left me mourning.
What can my barbarous barbarous father do,
But with his cruel rage pursue me?
My luver's blood is on thy spear,
How canst thou, barbarous man, then wooe me?
My happy sisters may be, may be proud
With cruel, and ungentle scoffin',
May bid me seek on Yarrow's Braes
My luver nailed in his coffin.
My brother Douglas may upbraid, upbraid,
And strive with threatning words to muve me:
My luver's blood is on thy spear,
How canst thou ever bid me luve thee?
Yes, yes, prepare the bed, the bed of luve,
With bridal sheets my body cover,
Unbar, ye bridal maids, the door,
Let in the expected husbande lover.

373

But who the expected husband husband is?
His hands, methinks, are bath'd in slaughter:
Ah me! what ghastly spectre's yon
Comes in his pale shroud, bleeding after?
Pale as he is, here lay him, lay him down,
O lay his cold head on my pillow;
Take aff, take aff these bridal weids,
And crown my careful head with willow.
Pale tho' thou art, yet best, yet best beluv'd,
O could my warmth to life restore thee!
Yet lye all night between my breists,
No youth lay ever there before thee.
Pale, pale indeed, O luvely luvely youth,
Forgive, forgive so foul a slaughter,
And lye all night between my breists,
No youth shall ever lye there after.
A.
Return, return, O mournful, mournful bride,
Return and dry thy useless sorrow:
Thy luver heeds nought of thy sighs,
He lyes a corps in the Braes of Yarrow.


374

XXV. ADMIRAL HOSIER'S GHOST

[_]

—was written by the ingenious author of Leonidas, on the taking of Porto Bello from the Spaniards by Admiral Vernon, Nov. 22. 1739.—The case of Hosier, which is here so pathetically represented, was briefly this. In April, 1726, that commander was sent with a strong fleet into the Spanish West-Indies, to block up the galleons in the Ports of that country, or should they presume to come out, to seize and carry them into England: he accordingly arrived at the Bastimentos near Porto Bello, but being restricted by his orders from obeying the dictates of his courage, lay inactive on that station until he became the jest of the Spaniards: he afterwards removed to Carthagena, and continued cruizing in these seas, till far the greater part of his men perished deplorably by the diseases of that unhealthy climate. This brave man, seeing his best officers and men thus daily swept away, his ships exposed to inevitable destruction, and himself made the sport of the enemy, is said to have died of a broken heart.

See Smollet's hist.

The following song is commonly accompanied with a Second Part, or Answer, which being of inferior merit, and apparently written by another hand, hath been rejected.

As near Porto-Bello lying
On the gently swelling flood,
At midnight with streamers flying
Our triumphant navy rode;

375

There while Vernon sate all-glorious
From the Spaniards' late defeat:
And his crews, with shouts victorious,
Drank success to England's fleet:
On a sudden shrilly sounding,
Hideous yells and shrieks were heard;
Then each heart with fear confounding,
A sad troop of ghosts appear'd,
All in dreary hammocks shrouded,
Which for winding-sheets they wore,
And with looks by sorrow clouded
Frowning on that hostile shore.
On them gleam'd the moon's wan lustre,
When the shade of Hosier brave
His pale bands was seen to muster
Rising from their watry grave:
O'er the glimmering wave he hy'd him,
Where the Burford rear'd her sail,
With three thousand ghosts beside him,
And in groans did Vernon hail.
Heed, oh heed our fatal story,
I am Hosier's injur'd ghost,
You, who now have purchas'd glory,
At this place where I was lost!

376

Tho' in Porto-Bello's ruin
You now triumph free from fears,
When you think on our undoing,
You will mix your joy with tears.
See these mournful spectres sweeping
Ghastly o'er this hated wave,
Whose wan cheeks are stain'd with weeping;
These were English captains brave:
Mark those numbers pale and horrid,
Those were once my sailors bold,
Lo, each hangs his drooping forehead,
While his dismal tale is told.
I, by twenty sail attended,
Did this Spanish town affright;
Nothing then its wealth defended
But my orders not to fight:
Oh! that in this rolling ocean
I had cast them with disdain,
And obey'd my heart's warm motion
To have quell'd the pride of Spain!
For resistance I could fear none,
But with twenty ships had done
What thou, brave and happy Vernon,
Hast atchiev'd with six alone.

377

Then the bastimentos never
Had our foul dishonour seen,
Nor the sea the sad receiver
Of this gallant train had been.
Thus, like thee, proud Spain dismaying,
And her galleons leading home,
Though condemn'd for disobeying
I had met a traitor's doom,
To have fallen, my country crying
He has play'd an English part,
Had been better far than dying
Of a griev'd and broken heart.
Unrepining at thy glory,
Thy successful arms we hail;
But remember our sad story,
And let Hosier's wrongs prevail.
Sent in this foul clime to languish,
Think what thousands fell in vain,
Wasted with disease and anguish,
Not in glorious battle slain.
Hence with all my train attending
From their oozy tombs below,
Thro' the hoary foam ascending,
Here I feed my constant woe:

378

Here the bastimentos viewing,
We recal our shameful doom,
And our plaintive cries renewing,
Wander thro' the midnight gloom.
O'er these waves for ever mourning
Shall we roam depriv'd of rest,
If to Britain's shores returning
You neglect my just request;
After this proud foe subduing,
When your patriot friends you see,
Think on vengeance for my ruin,
And for England sham'd in me.
 

The Admiral's ship.

XXVI. JEMMY DAWSON.

[_]

James Dawson was one of the Manchester rebels, who was hanged, drawn, and quartered on Kennington Common in the County of Surrey, July 30. 1746.—This ballad is founded on a remarkable fact, which was reported to have happened at his execution. It was written by the late William Shenstone, Esq; soon after the event, and has been printed amongst his posthumous works, 2 vols. 8vo. It is here given from a MS copy, which contained some small variations from that lately printed.


379

Come listen to my mournful tale,
Ye tender hearts, and lovers dear;
Nor will you scorn to heave a sigh,
Nor will you blush to shed a tear.
And thou, dear Kitty, peerless maid,
Do thou a pensive ear incline;
For thou canst weep at every woe,
And pity every plaint, but mine.
Young Dawson was a gallant youth,
A brighter never trod the plain;
And well he lov'd one charming maid,
And dearly was he lov'd again.
One tender maid she lov'd him dear,
Of gentle blood the damsel came,
And faultless was her beauteous form,
And spotless was her virgin fame.
But curse on party's hateful strife,
That led the faithful youth astray,
The day the rebel clans appear'd:
O had he never seen that day!
Their colours and their sash he wore,
And in the fatal dress was found;
And now he must that death endure,
Which gives the brave the keenest wound.

380

How pale was then his true love's cheek,
When Jemmy's sentence reach'd her ear?
For never yet did Alpine snows
So pale, nor yet so chill appear.
With faltering voice she weeping said,
Oh Dawson, monarch of my heart,
Think not thy death shall end our loves,
For thou and I will never part.
Yet might sweet mercy find a place,
And bring relief to Jemmy's woes,
O George, without a prayer for thee
My orisons should never close.
The gracious prince that gives him life
Would crown a never-dying flame,
And every tender babe I bore
Should learn to lisp the giver's name.
But though, dear youth, thou shouldst be dragg'd
To yonder ignominious tree,
Thou shalt not want a faithful friend
To share thy bitter fate with thee.
O then her mourning coach was call'd,
The sledge mov'd slowly on before;
Tho' borne in a triumphal car,
She had not lov'd her favourite more.

381

She followed him, prepar'd to view
The terrible behests of law;
And the last scene of Jemmy's woes
With calm and steadfast eye she saw.
Distorted was that blooming face,
Which she had fondly lov'd so long:
And stifled was that tuneful breath,
Which in her praise had sweetly sung:
And sever'd was that beauteous neck,
Round which her arms had fondly clos'd:
And mangled was that beauteous breast,
On which her love-sick head repos'd:
And ravish'd was that constant heart,
She did it every heart prefer;
For tho' it could his king forget,
'Twas true and loyal still to her.
Amid those unrelenting flames
She bore this constant heart to see;
But when 'twas moulder'd into dust,
Now, now, she cried, I'll follow thee.
My death, my death alone can show
The pure and lasting love I bore:
Accept, O heaven, of woes like ours,
And let us, let us weep no more.

382

The dismal scene was o'er and past,
The lover's mournful hearse retir'd;
The maid drew back her languid head,
And sighing forth his name, expir'd.
Tho' justice ever must prevail,
The tear my Kitty sheds is due;
For seldom shall she hear a tale
So sad, so tender, and so true.
THE END OF THE THIRD BOOK.