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"Ah! my lord, too true the story; Here our tender loves must end!

"Our fond friendship is discover'd,
Well are known our mutual vows;
All my friends are full of fury;

Storms of passion shake the house.
"Threats, reproaches, fears, surround me;
My stern father breaks my heart;
Alla knows how dear it costs me,

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,
Spite of all their hateful pride,
Though I fear'd my haughty father

Ne'er would let me be thy bride.
"Well thou know'st what cruel chidings
Oft I've from my mother borne,
What I've suffer'd here to meet thee

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;
Well my breaking heart assures me
That my woes will not be long!
"Farewell, then, my dear Alcanzor !
Farewell too my life with thee!
Take this scarf, a parting token;

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!"
To him, all amaz'd, confounded,

Thus she did her woes impart :
Deep he sigh'd; then cried, "O, Zaida!
Do not, do not break my heart!
"Canst thou think I thus will lose thee?
Canst thou hold my love so small?
No; a thousand times I'll perish!
My curst rival too shall fall.

'Canst thou, wilt thou, yield thus to them?
O, break forth, and fly to me!
This fond heart shall bleed to save thee,
These fond arms shall shelter thee."
""Tis in vain! in vain, Alcanzor;

Spies surround me, bars secure :
Scarce I steal this last dear moment,
While my damsel keeps the door!
"Hark! I hear my father storming!
Hark, I hear my mother chide!

I must go; farewell for ever!
Gracious Alla be thy guide!"

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GALLANTS, attend, and hear a friend
Thrill forth harmonious ditty:
Strange things I'll tell, which late befell
In Philadelphia city.

'Twas early day, as poets say,

Just when the sun was rising,
A soldier stood on log of wood,
And saw a sight surprising.
As in a maze he stood to gaze,-

The truth can't be denied, sir,-
He spied a score of kegs or more,

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:
And girls and boys, with hideous noise,
Ran through the town half naked.
Sir William* he, snug as a flea,

Lay all this time a snoring;
Nor dreamt of harm, as he lay warm
In bed with Mrs. L*r*ng.

Now, in a fright, he starts upright,
Awak'd by such a clatter:
He rubs both eyes, and boldly cries,
"For God's sake! what's the matter ?"
At his bed-side he then espied

Sir Erskine, at command, sir;
Upon one foot he had one boot,
And t' other in his hand, sir.
"Arise! arise!" Sir Erskine cries;
"The rebels-more's the pity-
Without a boat, are all on float,

And rang'd before the city.
"The motley crew, in vessels new,

With Satan for their guide, sir,
Pack'd up in bags, or wooden kegs,
Come driving down the tide, sir:
"Therefore prepare for bloody war;
These kegs must all be routed,
Or surely we despis'd shall be,

And British courage doubted."

*Sir William Howe. † Sir William Erskine.

(

The Royal band now ready stand,
All rang'd in dread array, sir,
With stomachs stout, to see it out,
And make a bloody day, sir.
The cannons roar from shore to shore,

The small arms make a rattle:
Since wars began, I'm sure no man
E'er saw so strange a battle.
The rebel* vales, the rebel dales,
With rebel trees surrounded,
The distant woods, the hills and floods,
With rebel echoes sounded.

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
Of rebel staves and hoops, sir,
Could not oppose their pow'rful foes,

The conqu'ring British troops, sir.
From morn to night those men of might
Display'd amazing courage;
And when the sun was fairly down,
Retir'd to sup their porridge.

A hundred men, with each a pen,
Or more, upon my word, sir,
It is most true, would be too few
Their valor to record, sir.

Such feats did they perform that day
Upon those wicked kegs, sir,
That years to come, if they get home,
They'll make their boasts and brags, sir.

§ 100. Lady Ann Bothwell's Lament.
A Scottish Song.

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!
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 flattering cheire,
To me that time did not appeire :
But now I see, most cruell hee
Cares neither for my babe nor mee.

Balow, &c.

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But doe not, doe not, prettie mine,
To faynings fals thine hart incline :
Be loyal to thy luver trew,
And nevir change hir for a new:
If gude or faire, of hir have care,
For womens banning's wonderous sair.
Balow, &c.

Bairne, sin thy cruel father is gane,
Thy winsome smiles maun eise my paine :
My babe and I'll together live,
He'll comfort me when cares doe grieve:
My babe and I right saft will ly,
And quite forget man's cruelty.

Balow, &c.

Fareweil, fareweil, thou falsest youth,
That ever kist a woman's mouth!
I wish all maids be warn'd by mee,
Nevir to trust man's curtesy ;
For if we doe bot chance to bow,
They'lle use us than they care not how.
Balow, my babe, ly stil and sleipe!
It grieves me sair to see thee weipe.

§ 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!
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 her shroud 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-color'd flowers,
In token of good-will ;*

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
On it I will bestow;
But chiefly blacke and yellowe
With her to grave shall go.
I'll deck her tomb with flowers,
The rarest ever seen;

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
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,

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,
Of an old worshipful gentleman who had a
great 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.

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,
And the king's young courtier.

Like a flourishing young gallant, newly come
to his land,
[command,
Who keeps a brace of painted madams at his
And takes up a thousand pound upon his
father's land,

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

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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
are sold;
[hold,
And this is the course most of our new gallants
Which makes that good house-keeping is now
grown so cold

Among the young courtiers of the king,
Or the king's young courtiers.

§ 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;
Though surly Nereus frown, my thoughts are
calm;
[balm.
Then strike, Affliction, for thy wounds are
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:

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's life,

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;
And, to make smooth so rough a path,
I can learn patience from him:
Now not to suffer shows no loyal heart;
When kings want ease, subjects must bear a
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 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
the ancient Scots Manner.*

A. BUSK ye, busk ye, my bonny, bonny bride,
Busk ye, busk ye, my winsome marrow,
Busk ye, busk ye, my bonny, bonny bride,

And think no mair on the Braes of Yarrow.
|B. Where gat ye that bonny, bonny bride?
Where gat ye that winsome marrow?
A. I gat her where I dare na weil be seen,
Puing the birks 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!|
Weep not, weep not, my winsome marrow !
Nor let thy heart lament to leive

Puing the birks on the Braes of Yarrow.
B. 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, lang maun she, maun
she weep,
[row;
Lang maun she weep with dule and sor-
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 ?
[row?
Why on thy braes heard the voice of sor-
And why yon melancholious weids

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
tears,
[row;
His wounds in tears, with dule and sor-
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 pierc'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;
Though he was fair, and well beluv'd again,
Than me he never lov'd thee better.
Busk ye, then busk, my bonny, bonny bride,
Busk ye, busk ye, my winsome marrow,

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B. 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 dew 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,

He lay a corpse on the Braes of Yarrow.
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! [wooe me?
How canst thou, barbarous man! then
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

A.

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Ah, me! what ghastly spectre's yon

Comes in his pale shroud, bleeding after?
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 though thou art, yet best, yet best beluv'd,
O could my warmth to life restore thee!
Yet lye all night between my briests

No youth lay ever there before thee.
Pale, pale indeed! O luvely, luvely youth,
Forgive, forgive so foul a slaughter,

And lye all night between my briests,
No youth shall ever lye there after.
Return, return, O mournful, mournful bride,
Return, and dry thy useless sorrowe;
Thy luver heeds nought of thy sighs,
He lies a corpse on the Braes of Yarrow.

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