Now well-a-day! sayth Joan o' the Scales;
Now well-a-day! and woe is my life!
Yesterday I was lady of Linne,

Now I'm but John o' the Scales his wife.

Now fare thee well, sayd the heir of Linne;
Farewell, good John o' the Scales, said he:
When next I want to sell my land,

Good John o' the Scales I'll come to thee.

SIR JOHN SUCKLING'S CAMPAIGNE.

SIR JOHN he got him an ambling nag,

In Scotland for to ride-a,

With a hundred horse more, all his own he swore,

To guard him on every side-a.

No Errant-knight ever went to fight,

With half so gay a bravada,

Had you seen but his look, you'd have sworn on a book,
Hee❜ld have conquered a whole Armada.

The ladies ran all to the windows to see
So gallant and warlike a sight-a,
And as he pass'd by, they said with a sigh,
Sir John, why will you go fight-a?

But he, like a cruel knight, spurr'd on;
His heart would not relent-a,

For, till he came there, what had he to fear?
Or why should he repent-a?

The King (God bless him!) had singular hopes
Of him and all his troop-a:

The borderers they, as they met him on the way,
For joy did hollow and whoop-a.

None lik'd him so well, as his own colonell,
Who took him for John de Wert-a,*

But when there were shows of gunning and blows,
My gallant was nothing so pert-a.

For when the Scots army came within sight,
And all prepared to fight-a,

He ran to his tent, they ask'd what he meant,
He swore he must needs go sh-te-a.

The colonell sent for him back again,

To quarter him in the van-a,

But Sir John did swear he would not come there,
To be kill'd the very first man-a.

To cure his fear he was sent to the rear,
Some ten miles back and more-a;
Where Sir John did play at trip and away,
And near saw the enemy more-a.

But now there is peace, he's return'd to encrease
His money, which lately he spent-a,

But his lost honour must lie still in the dust;
At Berwick away it went-a.

A German general of great reputation, and the terror of the French In the reign of Louis XIII.

The hero, and, as some would have it, the author of this biting madnigal, was Sir John Suckling, a witty, but obscene poet of that day, who to show his loyalty, or if you will his love of arbitrary power, raised a troop of horse for the service of his master Charles I. so richly accoutred that it cost him £12,000. The king's army was indeed splendidly equipped, but it was by no means able to cope with the hardy Scots, who, with less of scarlet and gold, had a great deal more of sound principle and soldierly hardihood. Charles, when he surveyed his splendid retinue of devoted followers, and summed their number, as a great, though somewhat uncourtly, poet has represented the archdestroyer Satan, on a supposed similar occasion, felt his heart hardening, and though he gloried exulting in his strength, he could not deny himself the pleasure of a joke upon the poor Scots." After all" said he "the rogues cannot fail to fight stoutly if it were only to come at the Englishmen's fine clothes." Many of his Englishmen, however, and among the rest this Sir John and his splendid troop, took the hint, and by a timely flight kept their fine clothes out of danger. Had Sir John been a Presbyterian or an Independent, he

had, no doubt, found a place in the doggerels of Butler, and would cer tainly have filled it much better than many of the honest men that are there, but being engaged in the divine cause of tyranny, spiritual and temporal, his weakness was kindly overlooked, and these verses, severe as they are, were given out, in order to abate a little their sarcasm, as having been written by himself! Their author appears to have been Sir John Mennis, in whose works they are found-London, printed, 1656.

FROM the ocean emerged bright Phoebus's ray,
Big with the importance of Bannockburn's day;
To deck out the pomp of the broad shining field,
Which now a glittering harvest of lances did yield.
Resolv'd on a conquest of Scotia's plains,

To annex them for ever to England's domains,

Bold Edward, with the hugest host e'er England did produce,

With haughty strides advanced to dethrone Robert Bruce.

From an army compos'd of an hundred thousand men,
Well serv'd in every article to fight upon the plain;
Where the whole strength of England collected you
might see,

Who could not dream of any thing but certain victory.
So confident of success, a bard they brought along,
To celebrate the glory of their actions in a song;
And in their retinue they brought some waggon loads of
chains,

To lead their Scottish captives in triumph o'er the plains.

An Asiatic luxury their camp did overspread,

Up from the meanest centinel to Edward their head; Of discipline regardless, the despicable few,

They dreamt the very sight of their numbers would

subdue.