XXII.

"JOCKIE IS GROWNE A GENTLEMAN.”

This Satire was most probably levelled against the numerous train of Scotch adventurers who wisely emigrated to England in the time of James the First, in the full expectation of being distinguished by the particular favour and patronage of their native sovereign. The realization of these hopes, and perhaps some disappointment of his own, excited the gall of the unknown Satirist, and produced this effusion. Its extreme rarity cannot be better exemplified than by simply stating, that no other copy of it was ever seen by Mr. Chalmers, whose knowledge respecting every subject of Scottish history and literature is proverbial: and the late Mr. Ritson absolutely questioned it's existence till he was convinced of his error by the production of the original. The ensuing transcript is made from a very curious manuscript in the possession of the Rev. H. J. Todd, who has given an account of the other parts of the volume in his preliminary observations on the Sonnets of Milton.

WELL
ELL met, Jockie, whether * away?
Shall we two have a worde or tway?
Thow was so lousie the other day,
How the devill comes thow so gay?
Ha ha ha, by sweet St. An,
Jockie is growne a gentleman.

`* MS. Whether is the old spelling for whither, as in the 8th stanza also.

Thy shoes that thow wor'st when thow wenst to plow,
Were made of the hyde of a Scottish cow,

They are turnd into Spanish leather now,
Bedeckt with roses I know not how.

Ha ha ha, by sweet St. An,

Jockie is growne a gentleman.

Thy stockings that were of a northerne blew,
That cost not past 12d when they were new,
Are turnd into a silken hew,

Most gloriously to all men's vew.

Ha ha ha, by sweet St. An,

Jockie is growne a gentleman.

Thy belt that was made of a white leather thonge,
Which thow and thy father ware so longe,
Are turnd to hangers of velvet stronge,
With golde and pearle embroydred amonge.
Ha ha ha, by sweet St. An,

Jockie is growne a gentleman.

Thy garters that were of the Spanish say,
Which from the taylor thow stoll'st away,
Are now quite turnd to silk, they say,
With great broade laces fayre and gay.

Ha ha ha, by sweet St. An,
Jockie is growne a gentleman.

Thy doublet and breech that were so playne,

On which a louse could scarse remayne,

Are turnd to sattin, god a mercie brayne,

That thow by begging could'st this obtayne.
Ha ha ha, by sweet St. An,

Jockie is growne a gentleman.

Thy cloake which was made of a home-spun thread, Which thow wast wonte to flinge on thy bed.

Is turnd into a skarlet red,

1

With golden laces aboute thee spread.
Ha ha ha, by sweet St. An,

Jockie is growne a gentleman.

Thy bonnet of blew which thow wor'st hether,
To keep thy skonce from wind and wether,
Is throwne away the devill knowes whether,
And turnd to a bever hat and feather.

Ha ha ha, by sweet St. An,

Jockie is growne a gentleman.

Westminster hall was covered with lead,

And so was St. John many a day;

The Scotchmen have begd it to buy them bread; The devill take all such Jockies away!

Ha ha ha, by sweet St. An,

Jockie is growne a gentleman.

16

110

XXIII.

THE COMPLAINT OF THE SHEPHEARD
HARPALUS."

[Black letter; for the assigns of Symcocke.]

POOR Harpalus opprest with love

Sat by a chrystal brook :
Thinking his sorrows to remove,
Oftimes therein to look,

And hearing how on pebble stones,
The murmuring river ran,
As if it had bewail'd his groans,
Unto it thus began.

Fair stream, quoth he, that pities me,
And hears my matchless moan,

If thou be going to the sea,

As I do now suppone,

Attend my plaints past all relief,

Which dolefully I breath,

Acquaint the sea nymphs with the grief
Which still procures my death,

Who sitting in the cliffy rocks

May in their songs express,

While as they comb their golden locks,

Poor Harpalus' distress;

And so perhaps some passenger

That passeth by the way, May stay, and listen for to hear, Them sing this doleful lay.

Poor Harpalus a shepherd swain
More rich in youth than store,
Lov'd fair Philena, hapless man,
Philena oh therefore!

Who still, remorseless-hearted maid,
Took pleasure in his pain :

And his good will, poor soul, repaid,
With undeserv'd disdain.

Ne'er shepherd lov'd a shepherdess
More faithfully than he,
Ne'er shepherd yet beloved less

Of shepherdess could be,
How oft did he with dying looks,

To her his woes impart,

How oft his sighs did testify

The dolour of his heart.