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And soone before our king they came,
And knelt downe on the grounde:
Then might the tanner have beene awaye,
He had lever than twentye pounde.
A coller, a coller, here sayd the kinge,
A coller, he loud did crye:

Then woulde he lever than twentye pounde
He had not been so nighe.

A coller, a coller, the tanner he sayd,
I trowe it will breede sorrowe:
After a coller comes a halter,

And I shall be hanged to-morrowe.
"Away with thy feare, thou jolly tannèr,
For the sport thou hast shewn to mee,
I wote noe halter thou shalt weare,

But thou shalt have a knight's fee.
For Plumpton parke I will give thee,
With tenements faire beside:

'Tis worth three hundred markes by the yeare,
To maintain thy good cowe-hide."
Gramercye, my liege, the tanner replyde,
For the favour thou hast me showne;
If ever thou comest to merry Tamworth,
Neates leather shall clout thy shoen.

$116. Lady Ann Bothwell's Lament. A Scottish Song.

The subject of this pathetic ballad is, A lady of quality of the name of BOTHWELL, or rather BOSWELL, having been, together with her child, deserted by her husband or lover, composed these affecting lines herself.

BALOW, my babe, ly stil and sleipe!

It grieves me sair to see thee weipe;
If thoust be silent, Ise be glad,
Thy maining maks my heart ful sad.
Balow, my boy, thy mithers joy,
Thy father breides me great annoy.

Balow, my babe, ly stil and sleipe!
It grieves me sair to see thee weipe.
When he began to court my luve,
And with his sugred words to muve,
His faynings fals, and flettering cheire,
To me that time did not appeire:
But now I see, most cruell hee
Cares neither for my babe nor mee.

Balow, &c.

Ly stil, my darlinge, sleipe a while,
And when thou wakest sweitly smile:
But smile not, as thy father did,
To cozen maids; nay, God forbid !
But yette I feire, thou wilt gae neire
Thy fatheris hart and face to beire.
Balow, &c.

I cannae chuse, but ever will
Be luving to thy father stil:
Whair-cir he gae, whair-eir he ryde,

My love with him maun still abyde:

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$117. Corydon's doleful Kne The burthen of the song, DING, DON, present appropriated to burlesque sche therefore may excite only ludicrous modern reader, but in the time of e usually accompanied the most son mournful strains.

MY Phillida, adieu love!

For evermore farewel!
Ay me! I've lost my true love,
And thus I ring her knell,

Ding dong, ding dong, ding dong
My Phillida is dead!
I'll stick a branch of willow
At my fair Phillis' head.

For my fair Phillida

Our bridal bed was made: But 'stead of silkes so gay,

She in hershroud is laid.

Her corpse shall be attended
By maides in faire array,
Till th' obsequies are ended,
And she is wrapt in clay.
Her herse it shall be carried
By youths that do excel;
And when that she is buried,
I thus will ring her knell.
A garland shall be framed
By art and nature's skill,
Of sundry-colour'd flowers,
In token of good-will:

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It is a custom in many parts of England, to carry a fine garland before the corpse of a who dies unmarried.

nd sundry-colour'd ribbands On it I will bestow; it chiefly blacke and yellowe With her to grave shall go. I deck her tomb with flowers, The rarest ever seen,

id with my tears, as showers,

With an old falooner, huntsman, and a kennel
of hounds,
[grounds,
That never hawked nor hunted but in his own

Ding, &c. Who, like a wise man, kept himself within his

own bounds,

[good pounds: And when he dyed gave every child a thousand Like an old courtier, &c.

I'll keepe them fresh and green. Ding, &c. But to his eldest sou his house and land he as

stead of fairest colours,

Set forth with curious art,*

r image shall be painted

On my distressed heart.

Ding, &c.

d thereon shall be graven

Ier epitaph so faire,

Here lies the loveliest maiden

sable will I mourne;

bours be kind:

sign'd, [fall mind, Charging him in his will to keep the old bouatiTo be good to his old tenants, and to his neigh[was inclin'd: But in the ensuing ditty you shall hear how he Like a young courtier of the king's, And the king's young courtier.

That e'er gave shepherd care." Ding, &c. Like a flourishing young gallant, newly come

Blacke shall be all my weede,

me! I am forlorne,"

Now Phillida is dead.

Ding, &c.

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swages;

wages,

y every quarter paid their old servants their [footmen, nor pages, never knew what belonged to coachmen, kept twenty old fellows with blue coats and badges;

Like an old courtier, &c. han old study fill'd full of learned old books, han old reverend chaplain, you might know him by his looks, [hooks, h an old buttery-hatch worn quite off the Ian old kitchen that maintain'd half a dozen old cooks:

Like an old courtier, &c.

h an old hall, hung about with pikes, guns, and bows, [many shrewde blows, h old swords, and bucklers, that had borne I an old frize coat, to cover his worship's trunk hose,

1 a cup of old sherry to comfort his copper Like an old courtier, &c.

was come,

to his land,

[command, Who keeps a brace of painted madams at his Aud takes up a thousand pound_upon his father's land, [go nor stand! And gets drunk in a tavern, till he can neither Like a young courtier, &c.

With a new-fangled lady, that is dainty, nice, and spare,

Who never knew what belonged to good housekeeping, or care;

Who buys gaudy-colour'd fans to play with wanton air, And seven or eight different dressings of other [women's hair; Like a young courtier, &c.

With a new-fashion'd hall, built where the old one stood, [no good, Hunground with new pictures that do the poor With a fine marble chimney, wherein burns neither coal nor wood,

And a new smooth shovelboard, whereon no victuals e'er stood;

Like a young courtier, &c. With a new study stuft full of pamphlets and plays,

[prays, And a new chaplain, that swears faster than he With a new buttery-hitch that opens once in And a new French cook to devise fine kickfour or five days, [shaws and toys; Like a young courtier, &c. With a new fashion, when Christmas is draw ing on, [must be gone, On a new journey to London straight we all And leave none to keep house, but our new [with a stone: porter John, Who relieves the poor with a thump on the back

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h a good old fashion, when Christmasse [and drum, call in all his old neighbours with bagpipe th good cheer enough to furnish every old [man dumb old liquor able to make a cat speak, and Like an old courtier, &c.

room,

Who,

With new titles of honour bought with his fa-
ther's old gold,
[are solu ;
For which sundry of his ancestors old manors

This alludes to the painted effigies of alabaster anciently erected upon tombs and monuments.

And this is the course most of our new gallants hold, [grown so cold Which makes that good house-keeping is now Among the young courtiers of the king, Or the king's young courtiers.

$119. Loyalty confined. This excellent old song is preserved in David Lloyd's Memoires of those that suffered in the “cause of Charles L." 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 R. L'ESTRANGE

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;
Locks, bars, and solitude, together met,
Make me no prisoner, but an anchoret.

I, whilst I wish'd 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 cynic loves his poverty;

The pelican her wilderness; And 'tis the Indian's pride to be

Naked on frozen Caucasus:

Contentment cannot smart: Stoics, we see, Make torments easie to their apathy.

These manicles upon my arm

I as my mistress' favours wear;
And, for to keep my aucles 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 lock'd up,

Like some high prized margarite,
Or, like the great mogul or pope,
Am cloyster'd up from public sight:
Retiredness 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't lie, Thinking t' have made his purpose sure, By a malicious friendly knife,

Did only wound him to a cute: Malice, I see, wants wit; for what is ment Mischief, oftimes proves favour by th' ever When once my prince affiction 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 ben

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:

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 chant her wonted tale

In that her narrow hermitage! Even then her charming melody doth p That all her bars are trees, her cage a gro I am that bird, whom they combine Thus to deprive of liberty; But though they do my corps confint,

Yet, maugre hate, my soul is free: And though immar'd, yet can I chirp, : Disgrace to rebels, glory to my king! My soul is free as ambient air,

Although my baser part's immew' Whilst loyal thoughts do still repair Taccompany my solitude: Although rebellion do my body binde, My king alone can captivate my minde.

§ 120. To Althea from Prism. This excellent Sonnet, which possessed a p gree of fame among the old Cavaliers, wa ten by Colonel Richard Lovelace d confinement in the Gate-house, Wes to which he was committed by the Her Commons, in April 1642, for presenting tion from the county of Kent, requesting to restore the king to his rights, and n the government. See Wood's Athenz p. 228; where may be seen at large the a story of this elegant writer; who, afte beer distinguished for every gallant and accomplishment, the pattern of his and the darling of the ladies, died in the wretchedness, obscurity, and want, in hi WHEN love with unconfined wing 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 eve, The birds that wanton in theaire Know no such libertie,

hen flowing cups run swiftly round With no allaying Thames,

ir carelesse heads with roses crown'd,
Our hearts with loyal flames;
hen thirsty griefe in wine we steepe,
When healths and drafts goe free,
shes that tipple in the deepe,
Know no such libertie.

hen, linnet-like, confined I
With shriller note shall sing
e mercye, sweetness, majestye,
And glories of my king;

hen I shall voyce aloud how good
He is, how great should be,
'enlarged windes that curle the flood
Know no such libertie.

one walls do not a prison make,
Vor iron barres a cage;
ndes, innocent and quiet, take
That for an hermitage:
I have freedom in my love,
And in my soul am free,
gels alone, that soare above,
Enjoy such libertie.

21. The Braes of Yarrow, in Imitation of the ancient Scots Manner,

is written by William Hamilton of Bangour,
Esq. who died March 25, 1754, aged 50.
BUSK ve, busk ye, my bonny bonny bride,
Busk ye, busk ye, my winsome marrow,
Busk ye, busk ye, my bonny bonny bride,
And think no maire on the Braes of Yarrow.
Where gat ye that bonny bonny bride?
Where gat ve that winsome marrow?
I gat her where I dare na weil be seen,
Puing the birks on the Braes of Yarrow.
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. 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? Lang maun she weep, lang maun she, mauu 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?

B.

What's yonder floats on the rueful, rueful Aude?

What's yonder floats? Odule and sorrow! O'tis he, the comely swain I slew

Upon the duleful Braes of Yarrow!

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 piere'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 banks 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,
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 well beluv'd again,

Than me he never luv'd thee better. Busk ye, then busk, my bonny 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. 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, Nor due thy tender blossoms cover! For there was basely slain my luve,

My luve, as he had not been a luver! 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. The boy took out his milk-white, milk-white steed;

Unheedful of my dule and sorrow; But, ere the dewfall of the night, Hely a corpse on the Brats of Yarrow.

Much

Much I rejoic'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
My luver's blood is on thy spear! [me;

How canst thou ever bid me luve thee?
Yes, yes, prepare the bed, the bed of luve,
With bridal sheets my body cuver :
Unbar, ye bridal maids, the door,

Let in the expected husbande luver.

But who the expected husband, husband is?

Sayes, Christ you save! good Childe Waters;
Saves, Christ you save! and see,
My girdle of gold, that was too longe,
Is now too short for mee.

And all is with one childe of yours,

I feele sturre at my side:

My gowne of greene it is too straight;
Before it was too wide.

If the childe be mine, faire Ellen, he sat,
Be mine, as you tell mee;
Then take you Cheshire and Lancash're bo
Take them your owne to bce.

If the childe be mine, faire Ellen, he sayt,
Be mine, as you doe sweare:
Then take you Cheshire and Lancashire!
And make that childe your heyr.
Shee saves, I had rather have one kiɛt,
Childe Waters, of thy mouth;

Than I wolde have Cheshire and Lanes
That lve by north and southe.

And I had rather have one twinkling,
Childe Waters, of thine ee;

His hands, methinks, are bath'd in slaugh-Then I wolde have Cheshire and Lanes Ah me! what ghastly spectre's von [ter: To take them mine owne to bee. Comes in his pale shroud, bleeding afterTo-morrow, Ellen, I must forth ryde 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! Oluvely, Juvely 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 sorrowe;
Thy luver heeds nought of thy sighs,
Ile lies a corpse on the Braes of Yarrow.

§ 122. Childe Waters.

CHILD is frequently used by our old writers as a title. It is repeatedly given to Prince Arthur in the Fairie Queen; and the son of a king is in the same poem call'd" Child Tristram." And it ought to be observed that the word child or

chield is still used in North Briton to denominate a man, commonly with some contemptuous character affixed to him, but sometimes to denote man in general.

CHILDE Waters in his stable stoode,

And stroakt his milke-white stecde:

To him a fayre yonge ladye came

As ever ware womans weede.

Farr into the north countree;
The fayrest ladye that I can finde,
Ellen, must go with mee.

Thoughe I am not that ladye fayre,

Yet let me goe with thee:
And ever, I pray you, Childe Waters,
Your foot-page let me bee.

If you will my foot-page bee, Ellen,
As you doe tell to mee;
Then you must cut your gowne of greene
An inch above your knee.

Soe must you doe your yellowe lockes,
An inch above your ee:
You must tell no man what is my name
My foot-page then you shall bee.
Shee, all the long daye Childe Waters roc
Ran barefoote by his syde;
Yet was he never so courteous a knighte,
To say, Ellen, will you ryde?

Shee, all the long daye Childe Waters ro,
Ran barefoote thorow the broome;

Yet was he never soe courteous a knight. |
To say, Put on your shoone.
Ride softlye, shee sayd, O Childe Waters
Why doe you ride so fast?
The childe, which is no man's but thiae,
My body itt will brast.

Hee sayth, Seest thou yond water, Ella,
That flows from banke to brimme?
I trust in God, O Childe Watèrs,
You never will see me swimme!

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