Reliques of Ancient English Poetry consisting of Old Heroic Ballads, Songs, and other Pieces of our earlier Poets, (Chiefly of the Lyric kind.) Together with some few of later Date |
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 | Reliques of Ancient English Poetry |  |
BOOK III.
I. THE COMPLAINT OF CONSCIENCE.
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.
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.’
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.
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.
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,’
I was entertained with kinges, and with peeres.
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.
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.
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.
That is Covetousnes, Lecherye, Usury, beside:
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.
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.
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.
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,
And whipp me out of towne to seeke where I was borne.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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,
That whosoever gives alms they will give none.
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.
II. PLAIN TRUTH, AND BLIND IGNORANCE.
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.
God speed you, ancient father,
And give you a good daye;
What is the cause, I praye you,
So sadly here you staye?
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;
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.
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.
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.
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;
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:
And passion of his zon,
And with the zubtil papistes
Ich have for ever done.
III. THE WANDERING JEW.
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,
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
At which our Saviour sayd,
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.
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 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.
In wandring up and downe;
He much again desired to see
Jerusalems renowne,
He wandred thence with woe,
Our Saviours wordes, which he had spoke,
To verefie and showe.
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.
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:
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,
For mortall sinners crimes.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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. . . . .
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.
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.
Acting by others actions;
Not lov'd unlesse they give,
Not strong but by their factions:
Give potentates the lye.
That rule affairs of state,
Their purpose is ambition,
Their practise onely hate;
And if they once reply,
Then give them all the lye.
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 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 honour, how it alters;
Tell beauty, how she blasteth;
Tell favour, how she falters;
Give each of them the lye.
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 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 nature of decay;
Tell friendship of unkindnesse;
Tell justice of delay:
And if they dare reply,
Then give them all the lye.
But vary by esteeming;
Tell schooles, they want profoundnesse,
And stand too much on seeming:
Give arts and schooles the lye.
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.
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.
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
A Sonnet addressed by King James to his son Prince Henry
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.
Observe the statutes of our heavenly king;
And from his law make all your laws to spring;
Since his lieutenant here ye should remaine.
Represse the proud, maintayning aye the right;
Walke always so, as ever in his sight,
Who guardes the godly, plaguing the prophane.
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.
What loathsome love breeds such a baleful band
Betwixt the cankred king of Creta land ,
That melancholy old and angry fire,
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.
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.
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 King “John 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,
“When learned bishops princes eyes do blind.”
The following is chiefly printed from an ancient blackletter copy, to “The tune of Derry down.”
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.
Concerning the Abbot of Canterbùrye;
How for his house-keeping, and high renowne,
They rode poste for him to fair London towne.
The abbot kept in his house every day;
And fifty golde chaynes, without any doubt,
In velvet coates waited the abbot about.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
And he rode to Cambridge, and Oxenford;
But never a doctor there was so wise,
That could with his learning an answer devise.
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?
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:
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.
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.”
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.
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.
With sumptuous array most gallant and brave;
With crozier, and miter, and rochet, and cope,
Fit to appeare fore our fader the pope.”
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.
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.
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.”
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.
Until the next morning he riseth againe;
But in twenty-four hours you'll ride it about.”
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.
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.”
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.”
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.
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.”
This song is printed from the Reliquiæ Wottonianæ 1651. with some corrections from an old MS. copy.
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?
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?
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?
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
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.
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 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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
And a new chaplain, that swears faster than he prays,
And a new Frenck cook, to devise fine kickshaws, and toys;
Like a young courtier, &c.
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 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.
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.
IX. SIR JOHN SUCKLING'S CAMPAIGNE.
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.
“His money, which lately he spent-a,
“But his lost honour must lye still in the dust;
“At Barwick away it went-a.”
To Scotland for to ride-a,
With a hundred horse more, all his own he swore,
To guard him on every side-a.
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.
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?
His heart would not relent-a,
For, till he came there, what had he to fear?
Or why should he repent-a?
Of him and all his troop-a:
The borderers they, as they met him on the way,
For joy did hollow, and whoop-a.
Who took him for John de Wert-a;
But when there were shows of gunning and blows,
My gallant was so nothing pert-a.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
A private closet is to me:
Whilst a good conscience is my bail,
And innocence my liberty:
Make me no prisoner, but an anchoret.
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 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.
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.
Like some high-prized margarite,
Or, like the great mogul or pope,
Am cloyster'd up from publick sight:
And thus, proud sultan, I'm as great as thee.
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.
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.
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.
Neither in person or in coin;
Yet contemplation is a thing,
That renders what I have not, mine:
Whom I do wear engraven on my heart?
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.
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.
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.
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.”
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.
The potency and power of kings,
Record the royal woe my suffering sings;
Its faculties in truth's seraphick line,
To track the treasons of thy foes and mine.
(The only root of righteous royaltie)
With this dim diadem invested me:
The holy unction, and the royal globe:
Yet am I levell'd with the life of Job.
Upon my grief, my gray discrowned head,
Are those that owe my bounty for their bread.
While sacrilegious hands have best applause,
Plunder and murder are the kingdom's laws;
Revenge and robbery are reformation,
Oppression gains the name of sequestration.
Attend me (by the law of God and reason),
They dare impeach, and punish for high treason.
Pious episcopacy must go down,
They will destroy the crosier and the crown.
Mechanicks preach, and holy fathers bleed,
The crown is crucified with the creed.
The pulpit is usurpt by each impostor,
Extempore excludes the Pater-noster.
Springs with broad blades. To make the religion bleed
Herod and Pontius Pilate are agreed.
With such a bloody method and behaviour
Their ancestors did crucifie our Saviour.
So many princes legally have come,
Is forc'd in pilgrimage to seek a tomb.
Whilst on his father's head his foes advance:
Poor child! he weeps out his inheritance.
In the king's name the king himself's uncrown'd:
So doth the dust destroy the diamond.
My people's ears, such as do reason daunt,
And the Almighty will not let me grant.
To make me great, t'advance my diadem,
If I will first fall down, and worship them!
Distress my children, and destroy my bones;
I fear they'll force me to make bread of stones.
That in my absence they draw bills of hate,
To prove the king a traytor to the state.
They are allow'd to answer ere they die;
'Tis death for me to ask the reason, why.
Thee to forgive, and not be bitter to
Such, as thou know'st do not know what they do.
As to contemn those edicts he appointed,
How can they prize the power of his anointed?
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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:
Up with the Abjuration oath;
And many of them, that have took't,
Complain it was foul in the mouth.
Says old Simon, &c.
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.
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.
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.
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 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 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.
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.
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.
A riding along the way, sir;
And there he met with a lady fine,
Among the cocks of hay, sir.
Among the grass lye downe-a:
And I will have a special care
Of rumpling of your gowne-a.
Will spoil my damask gowne, sir:
My gown, and kirtle they are newe,
And cost me many a crowne, sir.
Upon the ground I'll throwe it;
Then, lady faire, come lay thy head;
We'll play, and none shall knowe it.
Among the cocks of hay, sir;
And if the pinner should chance to see,
He'll take my steed away, sir.
Its made of finest gold-a;
And, lady, it thy steed shall bring
Out of the pinner's fold-a.
Fair chambers there are three, sir:
And you shall have the best of all,
And I'll your chamberlaine bee, sir.
And her on her dapple gray, sir:
And there they rode to her father's hall,
Fast pricking along the way, sir.
'Twas moated round about-a;
She slipped herself within the gate,
And lockt the knight without-a.
And take it for your pain, sir;
And two of my father's men I'll send
To wait on you back again, sir.
And whet it upon his sleeve-a:
And cursed, he said, be every man,
That will a maid believe-a!
And whip'd it upon her gown-a;
And curst be every maiden faire,
That will with men lye down-a!
And some do call it rue, sir:
The smallest dunghill cock that crows,
Would make a capon of you, sir.
Some call it mary-gold-a:
He that wold not when he might,
He shall not when he wold-a.
With cloak and hat and feather:
He met again with that lady gay,
Who was angling in the river.
You shall no more escape me;
Remember, how not long agoe
You falsely did intrap me.
And trembled at the stranger:
How shall I guard my maidenhed
From this approaching danger?
In all his riche attyer;
And cryed, As I am a noble knight,
I do thy charms admyer.
Who seemingly consented;
And would no more disputing stand:
She had a plot invented.
Methinks I now discover
A riding upon his dapple gray,
My former constant lover.
Fast by the rivers brink-a;
The lady pusht with all her might:
Sir knight, now swim or sink-a.
The bottom faire he sounded;
Then rising up, he cried amain,
Help, helpe, or else I'm drowned!
You see what comes of fooling:
That is the fittest place for you;
Your courage wanted cooling.
Just at the close of eve-a,
Again she met with her angry sparke;
Which made this lady grieve-a.
And no one now can hear thee:
And thou shalt sorely rue the hour,
That e'er thou dar'dst to jeer me.
With a young silly maid-a:
I vow and swear I thought no harm,
'Twas a gentle jest I playd-a.
To tumble me in and leave me:
What if I had in the river dy'd?—
That fetch will not deceive me.
Tho' injur'd out of measure;
But then prepare without delay
To yield thee to my pleasure.
Yet think of your boots and spurs, sir:
Let me pull off both spur and boot,
Or else you cannot stir, sir.
And begg'd her kind assistance:
Now, smiling thought this lovely lass,
I'll make you keep your distance.
Sir knight, now I'm your betters:
You shall not make of me your prey;
Sit there like a knave in fetters.
He fretted, fum'd, and grumbled:
For he could neither stand nor goe,
But like a cripple tumbled.
Yet do not move nor stir, sir:
I'll send you my father's serving men,
To pull off your boots and spurs, sir.
You are but a stingless nettle:
You'd never have stood for boots or shoes,
Had you been a man of mettle.
Rolling upon the plain-a;
Next morning a shepherd past that way,
Who set him right again-a.
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 challenge all her kindred;
Each dastard soul shall stand affeard;
My wrath shall no more be hindred.
Which every side was moated:
The lady heard his furious vows,
And all his vengeance noted.
Once more I will endeavour;
This water shall your fury 'swage,
Or else it shall burn for ever.
She did invite a parley:
Sir knight, if you'll forgive me heare,
Henceforth I'll love you dearly.
And I am all alone, sir:
Therefore a-cross the water come;
And I am all your own, sir.
I scorn the treacherous bait-a:
If thou would'st have me thee believe,
Now open me the gate-a.
My father he has the keys, sir.
But I have for my love prepar'd
A shorter way and easier.
Full seventeen feet in measure:
Then step a-cross to the other bank,
And there we'll take our pleasure.
But strait he came tripping over:
The plank was saw'd, it snapping broke;
And sous'd the unhappy lover.
XVI. WHY SO PALE?
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.
Prethee, why so pale?
Will, when looking well can't move her,
Looking ill prevail?
Prethee why so pale?
Prethee why so mute?
Will, when speaking well can't win her,
Saying nothing doe't?
Prethee why so mute?
This cannot take her;
If of herself she will not love,
Nothing can make her.
The devil take her!
XVII. OLD TOM OF BEDLAM.
Mad song the first.
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
Or from the deepe abysse of hell,
Mad Tom is come into the world againe
To see if he can cure his distempered braine.
Harke, howe the angrye Fureys houle!
Pluto laughes, and Proserpine is gladd
To see poore naked Tom of Bedlam madd.
To seeke my straggling senses,
In an angrye moode I mett old Time,
With his pentarchye of tenses:
Away he hyed,
For time will stay for no man:
In vaine with cryes
I rent the skyes,
For pity is not common.
Helpe, oh helpe! or else I dye!
The carman 'gins to whistle;
Chast Diana bends her bowe,
The boare begins to bristle.
To knocke off my troublesome shackles;
Bid Charles make ready his waine
To fetch me my senses againe.
Mars met Venus in the darke;
Limping Vulcan het an iron barr,
And furiouslye made at the god of war:
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:
Stood still to see the quarrell;
Gorrel-bellyed Bacchus, gyant-like,
Bestryd a strong-beere barrell.
I did him thanke,
But I could get no cyder;
Till he burst his gutts,
But mine were ne'er the wyder.
A little drinke for charitye!
The huntsmen whoop and hallowe:
Ringwood, Royster, Bowman, Jowler,
All the chase do followe.
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.
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.
I had my education,
Where my friends surmise
I dazel'd my eyes
With the sight of revelation.
Boldly I preach, &c.
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.
Through antichrist's perswasion:
Neither Rome nor Spain
Can resist my strong invasion.
Boldly I preach, &c.
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.
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.
There fought I with this monster:
But the sons of pride
My zeal deride,
And all my deeds misconster.
Boldly I preach, &c.
With the lance of Inspiration;
And spill the drink
In her cup of abomination.
Boldly I preach, &c.
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.
The black line of damnation;
Those crooked veins
So stuck in my brains,
That I fear'd my reprobation.
Boldly I preach, &c.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
Since love does distract my brain:
I'll go, I'll wed the night-mare,
And kiss her, and kiss her again:
Then, a pise on her love! let her go;
I'll seek me a winding shroud,
And down to the shades below.
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!
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.
While wandering in despair,
I am to the desarts lead,
Expecting to find her there.
I see her enthroned on high;
Then to her I crie aloud,
And labour to reach the sky.
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.
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.
And hurry me hence away,
My languishing life to you
A tribute I freely pay.
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.
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.
Is to be brisk and airy,
With a step and a bound,
With a frisk from the ground,
I'll trip like any fairy.
Were three celestial bodies:
With an air, and a face,
And a shape, and a grace,
I'll charm, like beauty's goddess.
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.
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?
That soon my heart will warm;
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,
“Death alone must be my cure, &c.
Where sorrow ne'er shall wound me;
Where nothing shall my rest invade,
But joy shall still surround me.
From her disdain I fly;
She is the cause of all my pain,
For her alone I die.
When he but half his radiant course has run,
When his meridian glories gaily shine,
And gild all nature with a warmth divine,
Which now so full appears;
Those streams, that do so swiftly glide,
Are nothing but my tears.
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.
Ye gentle swains!
Cover me with ice and snow,
I scorch, I burn, I flame, I glow!
Quickly bear me
To the dismal shades below!
Where yelling, and howling
Strike the ear with horrid woe.
Fiery lakes
Would be a pleasure, and a cure:
Not all the hells,
Where Pluto dwells,
Can give such pain as I endure.
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.
Each eye-ball too like lightning flashes!
Within my breast there glows a solid fire,
Which in a thousand ages can't expire!
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.
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!
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.
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.”
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.”
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.
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.
Lilli, &c.
And he will cut all de English troate.
Lilli, &c.
Lilli, &c.
De law's on dare side, and Creish knows what.
Lilli, &c.
Lilli, &c.
We'll hang Magna Charta, and dem in a rope.
Lilli, &c.
Lilli, &c.
And with brave lads is coming aboard:
Lilli, &c.
Lilli, &c.
Lilli, &c.
Lilli, &c.
Ho! by my shoul 'tis a protestant wind.
Lilli, &c.
Lilli, &c.
And we shall have commissions gillore.
Lilli, &c.
Lilli, &c.
Shall be turn out, and look like an ass,
Lilli, &c.
Lilli, &c.
By Chrish and shaint Patrick, de nation's our own.
Lilli, &c.
Lilli, &c.
“Ireland shall be rul'd by an ass, and a dog.”
Lilli, &c.
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.
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 winsome marrow?
A.
Puing the birks on the Braes of Yarrow.
Weep not, weep not, my winsome marrow;
Nor let thy heart lament to leive
Puing the birks on the Braes of Yarrow.
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 with dule and sorrow;
And lang maun I nae mair weil be seen
Puing the birks on the Braes of Yarrow.
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 on thy braes heard the voice of sorrow?
And why yon melancholious weids
Hung on the bonny birks of Yarrow?
What's yonder floats? O dule and sorrow!
O 'tis he the comely swain I slew
Upon the duleful Braes of Yarrow.
His wounds in tears with dule and sorrow;
And wrap his limbs in mourning weids,
And lay him on the Braes of Yarrow.
Ye sisters sad, his tomb with sorrow;
And weep around in waeful wise
His hapless fate on the Braes of Yarrow.
My arm that wrought the deed of sorrow,
The fatal spear that pierc'd his breast,
His comely breast on the Braes of Yarrow.
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.
Yellow on Yarrow's bank the gowan,
Fair hangs the apple frae the rock,
Sweet the wave of Yarrow flowan.
As green its grass, its gowan as yellow,
The apple frae its rock as mellow.
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, 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?
Now dew thy tender blossoms cover,
For there was basely slain my luve,
My luve, as he had not been a lover.
His purple vest, 'twas my awn sewing:
Ah! wretched me! I little, little kenn'd
He was in these to meet his ruin.
Unheedful of my dule and sorrow;
But ere the toofall of the night
He lay a corps on the Braes of Yarrow.
I sang, my voice the woods returning:
But lang ere night the spear was flown,
That slew my luve, and left me mourning.
But with his cruel rage pursue me?
My luver's blood is on thy spear,
How canst thou, barbarous man, then wooe me?
With cruel, and ungentle scoffin',
May bid me seek on Yarrow's Braes
My luver nailed in his coffin.
And strive with threatning words to muve me:
My luver's blood is on thy spear,
How canst thou ever bid me luve thee?
With bridal sheets my body cover,
Unbar, ye bridal maids, the door,
Let in the expected husbande lover.
His hands, methinks, are bath'd in slaughter:
Ah me! what ghastly spectre's yon
Comes in his pale shroud, bleeding after?
O lay his cold head on my pillow;
Take aff, take aff these bridal weids,
And crown my careful head with willow.
O could my warmth to life restore thee!
Yet lye all night between my breists,
No youth lay ever there before thee.
Forgive, forgive so foul a slaughter,
And lye all night between my breists,
No youth shall ever lye there after.
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.
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.
On the gently swelling flood,
At midnight with streamers flying
Our triumphant navy rode;
From the Spaniards' late defeat:
And his crews, with shouts victorious,
Drank success to England's fleet:
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.
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.
I am Hosier's injur'd ghost,
You, who now have purchas'd glory,
At this place where I was lost!
You now triumph free from fears,
When you think on our undoing,
You will mix your joy with tears.
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.
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!
But with twenty ships had done
What thou, brave and happy Vernon,
Hast atchiev'd with six alone.
Had our foul dishonour seen,
Nor the sea the sad receiver
Of this gallant train had been.
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.
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.
From their oozy tombs below,
Thro' the hoary foam ascending,
Here I feed my constant woe:
We recal our shameful doom,
And our plaintive cries renewing,
Wander thro' the midnight gloom.
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.
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.
Ye tender hearts, and lovers dear;
Nor will you scorn to heave a sigh,
Nor will you blush to shed a tear.
Do thou a pensive ear incline;
For thou canst weep at every woe,
And pity every plaint, but mine.
A brighter never trod the plain;
And well he lov'd one charming maid,
And dearly was he lov'd again.
Of gentle blood the damsel came,
And faultless was her beauteous form,
And spotless was her virgin fame.
That led the faithful youth astray,
The day the rebel clans appear'd:
O had he never seen that day!
And in the fatal dress was found;
And now he must that death endure,
Which gives the brave the keenest wound.
When Jemmy's sentence reach'd her ear?
For never yet did Alpine snows
So pale, nor yet so chill appear.
Oh Dawson, monarch of my heart,
Think not thy death shall end our loves,
For thou and I will never part.
And bring relief to Jemmy's woes,
O George, without a prayer for thee
My orisons should never close.
Would crown a never-dying flame,
And every tender babe I bore
Should learn to lisp the giver's name.
To yonder ignominious tree,
Thou shalt not want a faithful friend
To share thy bitter fate with thee.
The sledge mov'd slowly on before;
Tho' borne in a triumphal car,
She had not lov'd her favourite more.
The terrible behests of law;
And the last scene of Jemmy's woes
With calm and steadfast eye she saw.
Which she had fondly lov'd so long:
And stifled was that tuneful breath,
Which in her praise had sweetly sung:
Round which her arms had fondly clos'd:
And mangled was that beauteous breast,
On which her love-sick head repos'd:
She did it every heart prefer;
For tho' it could his king forget,
'Twas true and loyal still to her.
She bore this constant heart to see;
But when 'twas moulder'd into dust,
Now, now, she cried, I'll follow thee.
The pure and lasting love I bore:
Accept, O heaven, of woes like ours,
And let us, let us weep no more.
The lover's mournful hearse retir'd;
The maid drew back her languid head,
And sighing forth his name, expir'd.
The tear my Kitty sheds is due;
For seldom shall she hear a tale
So sad, so tender, and so true.
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