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“ Ah! my lord, too true the story;

Ø 99. Song. The battle of the Kegs. Here our tender loves must end !

HOPKINSON. “Our fond friendship is discover'd,

GALLANTS, attend, and hear a friend Well are known our mutual vows;

Thrill forth harmonious ditty : All my friends are full of fury;

Strange things I'll tell, which late befell Storms of passion shake the house.

In Philadelphia city. " Threats, reproaches, fears, surround me; 'Twas early day, as poets say, My stern father breaks my heart ;

Just when the sun was rising, Alla knows how dear it costs me,

A soldier stood on log of wood, Gen'rous youth, from thee to part!

And saw a sight surprising. "Ancient wounds of hostile fury

As in a maze he stood to gaze, Long have rent our house and thine ; The truth can't be denied, sir, Why then did thy shining merit

He spied a score of kegs or more, Win this tender heart of mine?

Come floating down the tide, sir. Well thou know'st how dear I lov'd thee, A sailor, too, in jerkin blue, Spite of all their hateful pride,

The strange appearance viewing, Though I fear'd my haughty father

First damn'd his eyes, in great surprise, Ne'er would let me be thy bride.

Then said—“Some mischief's brewing. Well thou know'st what cruel chidings

“ These kegs now hold the rebels bold, Oft I've from my mother borne,

Pack'd up like pickled herring ; What I've suffer'd here to meet thee

And they're come down t'attack the town Still at eve and early morn.

In this new way of ferry'ng."

The soldier flew, the sailor too; “I no longer may resist them;

And, scar'd almost to death, sir, All to force my hand combine;

Wore out their shoes, to spread the news, And, to-inorrow to thy rival

And ran till out of breath, sir. This weak frame I must resign!

Now up and down, throughout the town, “ Yet, think not thy faithful Zaida

Most frantic scenes were acted; Can survive so great a wrong ;

And some ran here, and some ran there, Well my breaking heart assures me

Like men almost distracted. That my woes will not be long !

Some fire cried, which some denied, Farewell, then, my dear Alcanzor!

But said the earth had quaked : Farewell too my life with thee!

And girls and boys, with hideous noise, Take this scarf, a parting token;

Ran through the town half naked. When thou wear'st it, think on me.

Sir William* he, snug as a flea, “Soon, lov'd youth, some worthier maiden Lay all this time a snoring; Shall reward thy gen'rous truth;

Nor dreamt of harm, as he lay warm
Sometimes tell her how thy Zaida

In bed with Mrs. L*r*ng.
Died for thee in prime of youth!” Now, in a fright, he starts upright,
To him, all amaz'd, confounded,

Awak'd by such a clatter :
Thus she did her woes impart:

He rubs both eyes, and boldly cries, Deep he sigh'd; then cried, “O, Zaida!

“For God's sake! what's the matter ?” Do not, do not break my heart !

At his bed-side he then espied Canst thou think I thus will lose thee?

Sir Erskine, at command, sir; Canst thou hold my love so small ?

Upon one foot he had one boot, No; a thousand times I'll perish!

And t’ other in his hand, sir. My curst rival too shall fall.

“ Arise ! arise !" Sir Erskine cries;

“ The rebels—more's the pity'Canst thou, wilt thou, yield thus to them?

Without a boat, are all on float,
O, break forth, and fly to me!
This fond heart shall bleed to save thee,

And rang'd before the city.
These fond arms shall shelter thee.” “ The motley crew, in vessels new,

With Satan for their guide, sir, "I 'Tis in vain! in vain, Alcanzor;

Pack'd up in bags, or wooden kegs,
Spies surround me, bars secure :
Scarce I steal this last dear moment,

Come driving down the tide, sir :
While my damsel keeps the door!

Therefore prepare for bloody war ;

These kegs must all be routed, “ Hark! I hear my father storming! Or surely we despis'd shall be, Hark, I hear my mother chide!

And British courage doubted."
I must go; farewell for ever!
Gracious Alla be thy guide !"

* Sir William Howo. † Sir William Erskinen

The Royal band now ready stand,

I cannae chuse, but ever will All rang'd in dread array, sir,

Be luving to thy father stil: With stomachs stout, to see it out,

Whair-eir he gae, whair-eir he ryde, And make a bloody day, sir.

My love with him maun still abyde : The cannons roar from shore to shore,

In weil or wae, whair-eir he gae, The small arms make a rattle:

Mine hart can neir depart him fraé. Since wars began, I'm sure no man

Balow, &c.; E’er saw so strange a battle.

But doe not, doe not, prettie mine, The rebel* vales, the rebel dales,

To faynings fals thine hart incline : With rebel trees surrounded,

Be loyal to thy luver trew, The distant woods, the hills and floods,

And nevir change hir for a new : With rebel echoes sounded.

If gude or faire, of hir have care, The fish below swam to and fro,

For womens banning's wonderous sair.

Balow, &c. Attack'd from ev'ry quarter; “Why, sure," thought they,“ the Devil's to pay

Bairne, sin thy cruel father is gane, 'Mong'st folks above the water."

Thy winsome smiles maun eise my paine :

My babe and I'll together live, The kegs, 'tis said, though strongly made

He'll comfort me when cares doe grieve : Of rebel staves and hoops, sir,

My babe and I right saft will ly, Could not oppose their pow'rful foes,

And quite forget man's cruelty. The conqu’ring British troops, sir.

Balow, &c. From morn to night those men of might

Fareweil, fareweil, thou falsest youth, Display'd amazing courage;

That ever kist a woman's mouth! And when the sun was fairly down,

I wish all maids be warn’d by mee, Retir'd to sup their porridge.

Nevir to trust man's curtesy; A hundred men, with each a pen,

For if we doe bot chance to bow, Or more, upon my word, sir,

They'lle use us than they care not how. It is most true, would be too few

Balow, my babe, ly stil and sleipe !
Their valor to record, sir.

It grieves me sair to see thee weipe.
Such feats did they perform that day
Upon those wicked kegs, sir,

$ 101. Song. Corydon's doleful Knell. That years to come, if they get home, The burthen of the song, Ding, Dong, &c. is, at presThey'll make their boasts and brags, sir.

ent, appropriated to burlesque subjects, and there

fore may excite only ludicrous ideas in a modern $ 100. Lady Ann Bothwell's Lament.

reader; but in the time of our poet it usually ac

companied the most solemn and mournful strains. À Scottish Song.

My Phillida, adieu, love!
A lady of quality, of the name of Bothwell, or rather
Boswell, having been, together with her child, de-

For evermore farewell ! serted by her husband, or lover, composed this pa- Ay me! I've lost my true love, thetic ballad herself.

And thus I ring her knell. Balow, my babe, ly stil and sleipe !

Ding dong, ding dong, ding dong, It grieves me sair to see thee weipe ;

My Phillida is dead! If thoust be silent, Ise be glad ;

I'll stick a branch of willow Thy maining maks my heart ful sad.

At my fair Phillis' head, Balow, my boy, thy mithers joy,

For my fair Phillida Thy father breides me great annoy.

Our bridal bed was made : Balow, my babe, ly stil and pe!

But, 'stead of silkes so gay, It grieves me sair to see thee weipe.

She in her shroud is laid. Ding, &c. When he began to court my luve,

Her corpse shall be attended And with his sugred words to muve,

By maides in faire array, His faynings fals, and flattering cheire,

Till th’ obsequies are ended, To me that time did not appeire :

And she is wrapt in clay.

Ding, &c.
But now I see, most cruell hee
Cares neither for my babe nor mee.

Her herse it shall be carried
Balow, &c. By youths that do excel;

And when that she is buried,
Ly stil, my darlinge, sleipe awhile,

I thus will ring her knell.

Ding, &c. And when thou wakest sweitly smile: But smile not, as thy father did,

A garland shall be framed To cozen maids; nay, God forbid !

By art and nature's skill, But yette I feire, thou wilt gae neire,

Of sundry-color'd flowers, Thy fatheris hart and face to beire.

In token of good-will ;*

Ding, &c. Balow, &c.

* It is a custom, in many parts of England, to carry * The British officers were so fond of the word a fine garland before the corpse of a woman who dien rebel, that they often applied it most absurdly. unmarried.

And sundry-color'd ribands

With good cheer enough to furnish every old On it I will bestow;

room, But chiefly blacke and yellowe

And old liquor able to make a cat speak, and With her to grave shall go.

Ding, &c.

man dumb; I'll deck her tomb with flowers,

Like an old courtier, &c. The rarest ever seen;

With an old falconer, huntsman, and a kennel And with my tears, as showers,

of hounds,

[grounds, I'll keepe them fresh and green. Ding, &c. That never hawked nor hunted but in his own Instead of fairest colors,

Who, like a wise man, kept himself within his Set forth with curious art, *

own bounds, Her image shall be painted

And when he dyed gave every child a thousand On my distressed heart. Ding, &c.

good pounds; And thereon shall be graven

Like an old courtier, &c. Her epitaph so faire,

But to his eldest son his house and land he asHere lies the loveliest maiden

sign'd, That e'er gave shepherd care." Ding, &c. Charging him in his will to keep the old bounIn sable will I mourne;

tifull mind, Blacke shall be all my weede :

To be good to his old tenants, and to his neighAy me! I am forlorne,

bors be kind : Now hillida is dead.

Ding, &c. But in the ensuing ditty you shall hear how he

was inclin'd, Ø 102. The old and young Courtier. Like a young courtier of the king's, The subject of this excellent old song is a comparison

And the king's young courtier. between the manners of the old gentry, as still subsisting in the times of Elizabeth, and the modern Like a flourishing young gallant, newly come refinements affected by their sons in the reigns of to his land,

[command, her successors.

Who keeps a brace of painted madams at his An old song made by an aged old pate, And takes up a thousand pound upon his Of an old worshipful gentleman who had a father's land, great estate,

And gets drunk in a tavern, till he can neither That kept a brave old house at a bountiful rate,

go nor stand!
And an old porter to relieve the poor at his gate; Like a young courtier, &c.

Like an old courtier of the queen's,
And the queen's old courtier.

With a new-fangled lady, that is dainty, nice, With an old lady whose anger one word asswages;

[wages,

Who never knew what belonged to good They every quarter paid their old servants their

house-keeping, or care; And never knew what belonged to coachman, Who buys gaudy-color'd fans to play with footmen, nor pages,

wanton air,

[badges ; But kept twenty old fellows with blue coats and And seven or eight different dressings of other

women's hair ; Like an old courtier, &c.

Like a young courtier, &c. With an old study fill'd full of learned old books, With an old reverend chaplain, you might With a new-fashion'd hall, built where the old know him by his looks,

one stood, With an old buttery-hatch worn quite off the Hung round with new pictures that do the hooks,

poor no good, And an old kitchen that maintain'd half a With a fine marble chimney, wherein burns dozen old cooks;

neither coal nor wood, Like an old courtier, &c.

And a new, smooth shovelboard, whereon no

victuals e'er stood; With an old hall, hung about with pikes, guns, and bows,

Like a young courtier, &c. With old swords, and bucklers, that had borne With a new study stuft full of pamphlets and many shrewde blows,

plays,

(prays; And an old frize coat, to cover his worship’s And a new chaplain, that swears faster than he trunk hose,

[nose, With a new buttery-hatch that opens once in And a cup of old sherry to comfort his copper four or five days, Like an old courtier, &c.

And a new French cook to devise fine kick With a good old fashion, when Christmasse

shaws and toys; was come,

Like a young courtier, &c. To call in all his old neighbors with bagpipe with a new fashion, when Christmas is draw

and drum, * This alludes to the painted effigies of alabaster, On a new journey to London straight we all anciently erected upon tombs and monuments.

must be gone,

and spare,

ing on,

grown so cold

And leave none to keep house, but our new I'm in the cabinet lock'd up, porter John,

Like some high-prized margarite, Who relieves the poor with a thump on the Or, like the great mogul or pope, back with a stone;

Ám cloyster'd up from public sight : Like a young courtier, &c.

Retiredness is a piece of majesty, With a new gentleman-usher, whose carriage And thus, proud Sultan, I'm as great as thee. is complete,

Here sin, for want of food, must starve, With a new coachman, footmen, and pages to Where tempting objects are not seen ; carry up the meat,

And these strong walls do only serve With a waiting gentlewoman, whose dressing To keep vice out, and keep me in : is very neat,

Malice, of late, 's grown charitable, sure; Who, when her lady has din’d, lets the ser- I'm not committed, but am kept secure. vants not eat;

So he that struck at Jason's life, Like a young courtier, &c.

Thinking t' have made his purpose sure, With new titles of honor bought with his By a malicious friendly knife, father's old gold,

Did only wound him to a cure. For which sundry of his ancestors' old manors Malice, I see, wants wit; for what is meant are sold;

[hold, Mischief, oftimes proves favor by th’ event. And this is the course most of our new gallants

When once my prince affliction 'hath, Which makes that good house-keeping is now Prosperity doth treason seem;

And, to make smooth so rough a path, Among the young courtiers of the king,

I can learn patience from him : Or the king's young courtiers.

Now not to suffer shows no loyal heart;

When kings want ease, subjects must bear a \ 103. Loyalty confined. This excellent old song is preserved in David Lloyd's

part. "Memoires of those that suffered in the cause of What though I cannot see my king, Charles I.He speaks of it as the composition of Neither in person or in coin; a worthy personage, who suffered deeply in those times, and was still living, with no other reward

Yet contemplacion is a thing than the conscience of having suffered. The au

That renders what I have not mine: thor's name he has not mentioned ; but, if tradition My king from me what adamant can part, may be credited, this song was written by Sir R. Whom I do wear engraven on my heart' L'Estrange. Beat on, proud billows ; Boreas, blow;

Have you not seen the nightingale, Swell, curled waves, high as Jove's roof;

A prisoner like, coopt in a cage ? Your incivility doth show,

How doth she chant her wonted tale That innocence is tempest-proof;

In that her narrow hermitage! Though surly Nereus frown, my thoughts are Even then her charming melody doth prove

[balm.

That all her bars are trees, her cage à grove. Then strike, Affliction, for thy wounds are I am that bird, whom they combine That which the world miscalls a jail,

Thus to deprive of liberty ; A private closet is to me :

But though they do my corps confine, Whilst a good conscience is my bail,

Yet, maugre hate, my soul is free: And innocence my liberty;

And though immur'd, yet can I chirp, and sing Locks, bars, and solitude, together met,

Disgrace to rebels, glory to my king! Make me no prisoner, but an anchoret.

My soul is free as ambient air, 1, whilst I wish'd to be retird,

Although my baser part 's immew'd, Into this private room was turn'd,

Whilst loyal thoughts do still repair As if their wisdoms had conspir'd

T'accompany my solitude : The salamander should be burn'd:

Although rebellion do my body binde, Or, like those sophists that would drown a fish, My king alone can captivate my minde. I am constrain'd to suffer what I wish.

$ 104. The Braes of Yarrow, in Imitation of The cynic loves his poverty ;

the ancient Scots Manner.* The pelican her wilderness; And 'tis the Indian's pride to be

A. Busk ye, busk ye, my bonny, bonny bride,

busk Naked on frozen Caucasus :

ye, my winsome marrow, Contentment cannot smart; Stoics, we see,

Busk ye, busk ye, my bonny, bonny bride,

And think no mair on the Braes of Yarrow. Make torments easie to their apathy. These manacles upon my arm

B. Where gat ye that bondy, bonny bride? I, as my mistress' favors, wear;

Where gat ye that winsome marrow ? And, for to keep my ancles warm,

A. I gat her where I dare na weil be seen, I have some iron shackles there :

Puing the birks on the Braes of Yarrow. These walls are but my garrison; this cell,

* Written by William Hamilton, Esq., of Ban. Which men call jail, doth prove my citadel. gour, who died March 25, 1754, aged 50.

calm;

Busk ye,

she weep,

Weep not, weep not, my bonny, bonny bride! Busk ye, and luve me on the banks of Tweed,

Weep not, weep not, my winsome marrow! And think nae mair on the Braes of YarNor let thy heart lament to leive

row. Puing the birks on the Braes of Yarrow. B. How can I busk a bonny, bonny bride ? B. Why does she weep, thy bonny, bonny bride ? How can I busk a winsome marrow ?

Why does she weep, thy winsome marrow? How luve him upon the banks of Tweed, And why dare ye nae mnair weil be seen That slew my luve on the Braes of Yarrow?

Puing the birks on the Braes of Yarrow? O Yarrow fields, may never, never rain, A. Lang maun she weep, lang maun she, maun

Nor dew thy tender blossoms cover! [row;

For there was basely slain my love, Lang maun she weep with dule and sor My luve, as he had not been a luver ! And lang maun I nae mair weil be seen The boy put on his robes, his robes of green,

Puing the birks on the Braes of Yarrow: His purple vest, 'twas my awn sewing : For she has tint her luver, Juver dear,

Ah, wretched me! I little, little kennid Her luver dear, the cause of sorrow;

He was in these to meet his ruin. And I hae slain the comliest swain

The boy took out his milk-white, milkThat eir pu'd birks on the Braes of Yarrow.

white steed,

Unheedful of my dule and sorrow; Why rins thy stream, O Yarrow, Yarrow reid?

[row?

But, ere the dewfall of the night, Why on thy braes heard the voice of sor

He lay a corpse on the Braes of Yarrow. And why yon melancholious weids

Much I rejoic'd that waeful, waeful day; Hung on the bonny birks of Yarrow ? I sang, my voice the woods returning :

But lang ere night the spear was flown, What's yonder floats on the rueful, rueful

That slew my luve, and left me mourning. flude ? What's yonder floats ? O dule and sorrow !

What can my barbarous, barbarous father do,

But with his cruel rage pursue me ? O, 'tis he, the comely swain I slew

My luver's blood is on thy spear! [wooe me? Upon the duleful Braes of Yarrow!

How canst thou, barbarous man! then Wash, O wash his wounds, his wounds in

My happy sisters may be, may be proud; tears,

[row;

With cruel and ungentle scoffin', His wounds in tears, with dule and sor

May bid me seek on Yarrow's Braes And wrap his limbs in mourning weids,

My luver nailed in his coffin; And lay him on the Braes of Yarrow!

My brother Douglas may upbraid, upbraid, Then build, then build, ye sisters, sisters sad,

And strive with threatning words to muve Ye sisters sad, his tomb with sorrow;

me; And weep around in waeful wise

My luver's blood is on thy spear! His hapless fate on the Braes of Yarrow.

How canst thou ever bid me luve thee! Curse ye, curse ye, his useless, useless shield,

Yes, yes, prepare the bed, the bed of luve, My arm that wrought the deed of sorrow, With bridal sheets my body cuver: The fatal spear that pierc'd his breast,

Unbar, ye bridal maids, the door, His comely breast on the Braes of Yarrow.

Let in the expected husbande luver. Did I not warn thee, not to, not to love ? But who the expected husband, husband is ?

And warn from fight ? but, to my sorrow, His hands, methinks, are bath'd in slaughToo rashly bauld, a stronger arm

ter : Thou mett’st, and fell'st on the Braes of Ah, me! what ghastly spectre's yon Yarrow,

Comes in his pale shroud, bleeding after ? Sweet smells the birk, green grows, green Pale as he is, here lay him, lay him down, grows the grass,

O lay his cold head on my pillow; Yellow on Yarrow's banks the gowan, Take aff, take aff these bridal weids, Fair hangs the apple frae the rock,

And crown my careful head with willow. Sweet the wave of Yarrow flowan.

Pale though thou art,yet best,yet best belur'd, Flows Yarrow sweet ? as sweet, as sweet O could my warmth to life restore thee! flows Tweed,

Yet lye all night between my briests As green its grass, its gowan as yellow; No youth lay ever there before thee. As sweet smells on its braes the birk,

Pale, pale indeed! O luvely, luvely youth, The apple frae its rock as mellow.

Forgive, forgive so foul a slaughter, Fair was thy luve, fair, fair indeed thy luve, And lye all night between my briests,

In flow'ry bands thou didst him fetter; No youth shall ever lye there after. Though he was fair, and well beluv'd again, A. Return, return, O mournful, mournful bride, Than me he never lov'd thee better.

Return, and dry thy useless sorrowe ; then busk, my bonny, bonny bride, Thy luver heeds nought of thy sighs, Busk ye, busk ye, my winsome marrow, He lies a corpse on the Braes of Yarrow.

Busk ye,

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