"Ah! my lord, too true the story; Here our tender loves must end! "Our fond friendship is discover'd, Storms of passion shake the house. Gen'rous youth, from thee to part! "Ancient wounds of hostile fury Long have rent our house and thine; Why then did thy shining merit Win this tender heart of mine? "Well thou know'st how dear I lov'd thee, Ne'er would let me be thy bride. Still at eve and early morn. "I no longer may resist them; All to force my hand combine; And, to-morrow to thy rival This weak frame I must resign! "Yet, think not thy faithful Zaida Can survive so great a wrong; When thou wear'st it, think on me. "Soon, lov'd youth, some worthier maiden Shall reward thy gen'rous truth; Sometimes tell her how thy Zaida Died for thee in prime of youth!" Thus she did her woes impart : 'Canst thou, wilt thou, yield thus to them? Spies surround me, bars secure : I must go; farewell for ever! GALLANTS, attend, and hear a friend 'Twas early day, as poets say, Just when the sun was rising, The truth can't be denied, sir,- Come floating down the tide, sir. A sailor, too, in jerkin blue, The strange appearance viewing, First damn'd his eyes, in great surprise, Then said "Some mischief's brewing. "These kegs now hold the rebels bold, Pack'd up like pickled herring; And they're come down t' attack the town In this new way of ferry'ng." The soldier flew, the sailor too; And, scar'd almost to death, sir, Wore out their shoes, to spread the news, And ran till out of breath, sir. Now up and down, throughout the town, Most frantic scenes were acted; And some ran here, and some ran there, Like men almost distracted. Some fire cried, which some denied, But said the earth had quaked: Lay all this time a snoring; Now, in a fright, he starts upright, Sir Erskine, at command, sir; And rang'd before the city. With Satan for their guide, sir, And British courage doubted." *Sir William Howe. † Sir William Erskine. ( The Royal band now ready stand, The small arms make a rattle: The fish below swam to and fro, Attack'd from ev'ry quarter; "Why, sure," thought they," the Devil's to pay 'Mong'st folks above the water." The kegs, 'tis said, though strongly made The conqu'ring British troops, sir. A hundred men, with each a pen, Such feats did they perform that day § 100. Lady Ann Bothwell's Lament. 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 this pathetic ballad herself. BALOW, my babe, ly stil and sleipe! Balow, my babe, ly stil and sleipe! Balow, &c. But doe not, doe not, prettie mine, Bairne, sin thy cruel father is gane, Balow, &c. Fareweil, fareweil, thou falsest youth, § 101. Song. Corydon's doleful Knell. The burthen of the song, Ding, Dong, &c. is, at present, appropriated to burlesque subjects, and therefore may excite only ludicrous ideas in a modern reader; but in the time of our poet it usually accompanied the most solemn and mournful strains. My Phillida, adieu, love! For evermore farewell! Ding dong, ding dong, ding dong, 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 her shroud is laid. By maides in faire array, Ding, &c. Ding, &c. Ding, &c. Ding, &c. *It is a custom, in many parts of England, to carry a fine garland before the corpse of a woman who dies unmarried. And sundry-color'd ribands And with my tears, as showers, Ding, &c. With good cheer enough to furnish every old room, And old liquor able to make a cat speak, and man dumb; Like an old courtier, &c. With an old falconer, huntsman, and a kennel I'll keepe them fresh and green. Ding, &c. That never hawked nor hunted but in his own Instead of fairest colors, Set forth with curious art,* Her image shall be painted On my distressed heart. And thereon shall be graven Her epitaph so faire, "Here lies the loveliest maiden Ding, &c. Who, like a wise man, kept himself within his own bounds, And when he dyed gave every child a thousand good pounds; Like an old courtier, &c. But to his eldest son his house and land he assign'd, That e'er gave shepherd care." Ding, &c. Charging him in his will to keep the old boun In sable will I mourne; Blacke shall be all my weede: Ay me! I am forlorne, Now Phillida is dead. Ding, &c. § 102. The old and young Courtier. The subject of this excellent old song is a comparison between the manners of the old gentry, as still subsisting in the times of Elizabeth, and the modern refinements affected by their sons in the reigns of her successors. An old song made by an aged old pate, That kept a brave old house at a bountiful rate, tifull mind, To be good to his old tenants, and to his neigh bors be kind: But in the ensuing ditty you shall hear how he was inclin'd, Like a young courtier of the king's, Like a flourishing young gallant, newly come And gets drunk in a tavern, till he can neither go nor stand! Like a young courtier, &c. With a new-fangled lady, that is dainty, nice, and spare, Who never knew what belonged to good house-keeping, or care; With an old lady whose anger one word asswages; [wages, They every quarter paid their old servants their And never knew what belonged to coachman, Who buys gaudy-color'd fans to play with But kept twenty old fellows with blue coats and And seven or eight different dressings of other Like an old courtier, &c. With an old study fill'd full of learned old books, With an old reverend chaplain, you might know him by his looks, With an old buttery-hatch worn quite off the hooks, And an old kitchen that maintain'd half a dozen old cooks; Like an old courtier, &c. With an old hall, hung about with pikes, guns, and bows, With old swords, and bucklers, that had borne many shrewde blows, women's hair; Like a young courtier, &c. With a new-fashion'd hall, built where the old one stood, Hung round with new pictures that do the poor no good, With a fine marble chimney, wherein burns neither coal nor wood, And a new, smooth shovelboard, whereon no victuals e'er stood; Like a young courtier, &c. With a new study stuft full of pamphlets and plays, [prays; And an old frize coat, to cover his worship's And a new chaplain, that swears faster than he [nose, With a new buttery-hatch that opens once in four or five days, trunk hose, And a cup of old sherry to comfort his copper Like an old courtier, &c. With a good old fashion, when Christmasse was come, And a new French cook to devise fine kick shaws and toys; Like a young courtier, &c. To call in all his old neighbors with bagpipe With a new fashion, when Christmas is draw ing on, 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 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. 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, With a new gentleman-usher, whose carriage And thus, proud Sultan, I'm as great as thee. is complete, With a new coachman, footmen, and pages to carry up the meat, With a waiting gentlewoman, whose dressing is very neat, Who, when her lady has din'd, lets the servants not eat; Like a young courtier, &c. With new titles of honor bought with his] father's old gold, For which sundry of his ancestors' old manors Among the young courtiers of the king, § 103. Loyalty confined. This excellent old song is preserved in David Lloyd's "Memoires of those that suffered in the cause of Charles I." 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; And innocence my liberty; I, whilst I wish'd to be retir'd, The salamander should be burn'd: Here sin, for want of food, must starve, To keep vice out, and keep me in: 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 favor by th' event. When once my prince affliction 'hath, Prosperity doth treason seem; What though I cannot see my king, That renders what I have not mine: 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 prove That all her bars are trees, her cage a grove. I am that bird, whom they combine Thus to deprive of liberty; But though they do my corps confine, Yet, maugre hate, my soul is free: And though immur'd, yet can I chirp, and sing Disgrace to rebels, glory to my king! My soul is free as ambient air, Although my baser part 's immew'd, Whilst loyal thoughts do still repair T'accompany my solitude: Although rebellion do my body binde, 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. 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 manacles upon my arm I, as my mistress' favors, 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. 104. The Braes of Yarrow, in Imitation of A. BUSK ye, busk ye, my bonny, bonny bride, And think no mair on the Braes of Yarrow. *Written by William Hamilton, Esq., of Bangour, who died March 25, 1754, aged 50. Weep not, weep not, my bonny, bonny bride!| Puing the birks on the Braes of Yarrow. Her luver dear, the cause of sorrow; That eir pu'd birks on the Braes of Yarrow. Why rins thy stream, O Yarrow, Yarrow Hung on the bonny birks of Yarrow? What's yonder floats on the rueful, rueful flude? What's yonder floats? O dule and sorrow! O, 'tis he, the comely swain I slew Upon the duleful Braes of Yarrow! Wash, O wash his wounds, his wounds in His hapless fate on the Braes of Yarrow. 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, Thou mett'st, and fell'st on the Braes of Sweet smells the birk, green grows, green 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; The apple frae its rock as mellow. B. How can I busk a bonny, bonny bride ? My luve, as he had not been a luver! Unheedful of my dule and sorrow; He lay a corpse on the Braes of Yarrow. That slew my luve, and left me mourning. A. Ah, me! what ghastly spectre's yon Comes in his pale shroud, bleeding after? And crown my careful head with willow. No youth lay ever there before thee. And lye all night between my briests, |