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He sent his man unto her then,

To the town where shee was dwellin;
You must come to my master deare,
Giff your name be Barbara Allen.

For death is printed on his face,
And ore his harte is stealin:
Then haste away to confort him,
O lovely Barbara Allen.

Though death be printed on his face,
And ore his harte is stealin:
Yet little better shall he bee
For bonny Barbara Allen.

So slowly, slowly, she came up,
And slowly she came nye him;
And all she sayd, when there she came,
Young man, I think y're dying.
He turn'd his face unto her strait,
With deadlye sorrow sighing;
O lovely maid, come pity mee,
Ime on my death-bed lying.
If on your death-bed you doe lye,
What needs the tale

are

you tellin? from death;

your

I cannot keep you
Farewell, sayd Barbara Allen.
He turned his face unto the wall,
As deadly pangs he fell in:
Adieu. adieu! adieu to all!
Adieu to Barbara Allen!

As she was walking ore the fields,
She heard the bells a knellin;
And every stroke did seem to saye,
Unworthye Barbara Allen.

She turned her body e round about,

And spied the corpse a coming; Laye down, laye down the corps, she sayd, That I look may

upon

him.

With skornful eye she looked downe,

Her cheek with laughter swellin; Whilst all her friends cryed out amaine, Unworthy Barbara Allen.

When he was dead, and laid in grave,
Her harte was struck with sorrowe.
O mother, mother, make my bed,

For I shall dye to-morrowe.
Hard-harted creature, him to slight,
Who loved me so dearlye:

O that I had been more kind to him,
When he was alive and neare me!
She, on her death-bed as she laye,
Beg'd to be buried by him;
And sore repented of the daye
That she did ere denye him.
Farewell, she said, ye virgins all,
And shun the fault I fell in;
Henceforth take warning by the fall
Of cruel Barbara Allen.

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whether it may be thought to have suggested the hint to the dramatic poet, or is not rather of later date, the reader must determine.

The story is told of Philip the Good, Duke of Burgundy; and is thus related by an old English writer: "The said Duke, at the marriage of Eleonora, sister to the King of Portugall, at Bruges, in Flanders, which was solemnized in the deepe of winter; when as by reason of unseasonable weather he could neither hawke nor hunt, and was now tired with cards, dice, &c. and such other domestic sports, or to see ladies dance; with some of his courtiers, he would in the evening walke disguised all about the towne. It so fortuned, as he was walking late one night, he found a country fellow dead drunke, snorting on a bulke; he caused his followers to bring him to his palace, and there stripping him of his old clothes, and attyring him after the court fashion, when he awakened, he and they were all ready to attend upon his excellency, and persuade him that he was some great duke. The poor fellow, admiring how he came there, was served in state all day long after supper, he saw them dance, heard musicke, and all the rest of those court-like pleasures: but late at night, when he was well tippled, and again faste asleepe, they put on his old robes, and so conveyed him to the place where they first found him. Now the fellow had not made them so good sport the day before, as he did now, when he returned to himself: all the jest was to see how he looked upon it. In conclusion, after some little admiration, the poor man told his friends he had seen a vision; constantly believed it; would not otherwise be persuaded, and so the jest ended." Burton's Anatomy of Melancholy, pt. 2. sect. 2. memb. 4. 2d ed. 1624, fol.

Now as fame does report, a young duke keeps a court, [sport: One that pleases his fancy with frolicksome all the rest, here is one I protest, among Which will make you to smile when you hear [ground, the true jest.

But

A poor tinker he found lying drunk on the As secure in a sleep as if laid in a swound. The duke said to his men, William, Richard,

and Ben,

Take him home to my palace, we 'Il sport

with [convey'd

him then. O'er a horse he was laid, and with care soon To the palace, although he was poorly arrayd: Then they stript off his clothes, both his shirt,

shoes, and hose,

And they put him to bed for to take his repose. Having pull'd off his shirt, which was all over dirt, [no great hurt: They did give him clean Holland, which was On a bed of soft down, like a lord of renown, They did lay him to sleep the drink out of his

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Till at last knights and squires they on him did And the chamberlain bare then did likewise declare,

He desired to know what apparel he'd wear : The poor tinker amaz'd, on the gentleman gaz'd, | And admired how he to his honor was rais'd.

Though he seem'd something mute, yet he chose a rich suit,

Which he straitways put on without longer dispute; [eyed, With a star on each side, which the tinker oft And it seem'd for to swell him no little with pride; [wife? For he said to himself, Where is Joan my sweet Sure she never did see me so fine in her life.

From a convenient place the right duke his good grace

Did observe his behaviour in every case.
To a garden of state on the tinker they wait,
Trumpets sounding before him; thought he,
This is great:
[view,
Where an hour or two pleasant walks he did
With commanders and squires in scarlet and
blue.

A fine dinner was drest, both for him and his guests;

He was plac'd at the table above all the rest,
In a rich chair or bed, lined with fine crimson
red,

With a rich golden canopy over his head :
As he sat at his meat the music play'd sweet,
With the choicest of singing, his joys to com-
plete.

While the tinker did dine, he had plenty of wine,
Rich canary and sherry, and tent superfine.
Like a right honest soul, faith, he took off his
bowl,

Till at last he began for to tumble and roll From his chair to the floor, where he sleeping

did snore,

Being seven times drunker than ever before.

Then the duke did ordaine, they should strip him amain,

And restore him his old leather garments again: 'Twas a point next the worst, yet perform it they must, [him at first; And they carried him straight where they found Then he slept all the night, as indeed well he might; [flight. But when he did waken his joys took their

For his glory to him so pleasant did seem, That he thought it to be but a mere golden dream; [he sought Till at length he was brought to the duke, where For a pardon, as fearing he'd set him at nought; But his highness he said, Thou 'rt a jolly bold blade,

Such a frolic before I think never was play'd.

Then his highness bespoke him a new suit and cloke, [joke; Which he gave for the sake of this frolicksome Nay, and five hundred pound, with ten acres of ground: [round, Thou shalt never, said he, range the counteries Crying, Old brass to mend; for I'll be thy good friend,

Nay, and Joan thy sweet wife shall my duchess attend.

Then the tinker replied, What! must Joan my sweet bride,

Be a lady, in chariots of pleasure to ride? Must we have gold and land ev'ry day at command?

Then I shall be a squire I well understand: Well, I thank your good grace, and your love I embrace;

I was never before in so happy a case.

$109. Song. Death's final Conquest. These fine moral stanzas were originally intended for a solemn funeral song in a play of James Shirley's intitled, The Contention of Ajax and Ulysses. Shirley flourished as a dramatic writer early in the reign of Charles I. but he outlived the Restoration. His death happened Oct. 23, 1666, æt. 72. It is said to have been a favourite song with King Charles II. THE glories of our birth and state

Are shadows, not substantial things;
There is no armor against fate:
Death lays his icy hands on kings:
Sceptre and crown

Must tumble down,
And in the dust be equal made
With the poor crooked sithe and spade.
Some men with swords may reap the field,

And plant fresh laurels where they kill;
But their strong nerves at last inust yield,
They tame but one another still.
Early or late

They stoop to fate,
And must give up their murmuring breath,
When they, pale captives, creep to death.
The garlands wither on your brow;

Then boast no more your mighty deeds:
Upon death's purple altar now

See where the victor victim bleeds.
All heads must come
To the cold tomb:

Only the actions of the just
Smell sweet, and blossom, in the dust.

§ 110. Song. SMOLLETT.
To fix her, 'twere a task as vain
To count the April drops of rain,
To sow in Afric's barren soil,
Or tempests hold within a toil.

I know it, friend, she's light as air,
False as the fowler's artful snare,
Inconstant as the passing wind,
As winter's dreary frost unkind.
She's such a miser too in love,
Its joys she'll neither share nor prove;
Though hundreds of gallants await
From her victorious eyes their fate.
Blushing at such inglorious reign,
I sometimes strive to break my
chain;
My reason summon to my aid,
Resolve no more to be betray'd.

Ah, friend! 'tis but a short-liv'd trance,
Dispell'd by one enchanting glance;
She need but look, and I confess
Those looks completely curse or bless.

So soft, so elegant, so fair,

Sure something more than human's there :
I must submit, for strife is vain;
'Twas destiny that forg'd the chain.

§ 111. Song. Gilderoy.

He was a famous robber, who lived about the middle of the 17th century; if we may credit the histories and story-books of highwaymen, which relate many improbable feats of him, as his robbing Cardinal Richelieu, Oliver Cromwell &c. But these stories have probably no other authority than the records of Grub

street.

GILDEROY was a bonnie boy,

Had roses tull his shoone,
His stockings were of silken soy,
Wi' garters hanging doune:
It was, Iweene, a comelie sight,
To see sae trim a boy;
He was my joy and heart's delight,
My handsome Gilderoy.

Oh! sike twe charming een he had,

A breath as sweet as rose;
He never ware a Highland plaid,
But costly silken clothes.
He gain'd the luve of ladies gay,
Nane eir tull him was coy,

Ah! wae is mee! I mourn the day,
For my dear Gilderoy.
My Gilderoy and I were born
Baith in one toun together;
We scant were seven years beforn
We gan to luve each other;
Our daddies and our mammies thay
Were fill'd wi' mickle joy,
To think upon the bridal day
'Twixt me and Gilderoy.
For Gilderoy, that luve of mine,
Gude faith, I freely bought
A wedding sark of Holland fine
Wi' silken flowers wrought:
And he gied me a wedding-ring,
Which I receiv'd with joy,
Nae lad nor lassie eir could sing
Like me and Gilderoy.
Wi' mickle joy we spent our prime,
Till we were baith sixteen,
And aft we past the langsome time
Among the leaves sae green:
Aft on the banks we'd sit us thair,
And sweetly kiss and toy;

Wi' garlands gay

wad deck

My handsome Gilderoy.

my

hair

Oh! that he still had been content

Wi' me to lead his life;

But, ah! his manfu' heart was bent
To stir in feats of strife!
And he in many a venturous deed
His
bauld wad try;
courage
And now this gars mine heart to bleed
For my dear Gilderoy.

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And when of me his leave he tuik, The tears they wet mine ee;

I

gave tull him a parting luik,

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My benison gang wi' thee!

God speed thee weil, mine ain dear heart,
For gane is all my joy;

My heart is rent, sith we maun part,
My handsome Gilderoy!"

My Gilderoy, baith far and near,
Was fear'd in ev'ry toun,
And bauldly bare away the gear
Of many a lawland loun:
Nane eir durst meet him man to man,
He was sae brave a boy;

At length wi' numbers he was tane,
My winsome Gilderoy.

Wae worth the loun that made the laws,
To hang a man for gear,

To reave of life for ox or ass,

For sheep, or horse, or mare:

Had not their laws been made sae strick,
I neir had lost my joy;

Wi' sorrow neir had wat my cheek
For my dear Gilderoy.

Giff Gilderoy had done amisse,
He mought hae banisht been;
Ah, what sair cruelty is this,

To hang sike handsome men!
To hang the flower o' Scottish land,
Sae sweet and fair a boy;
Nae lady had so white a hand
As thee, my Gilderoy.

Of Gilderoy sae fraid they were,

They bound him mickle strong,
Tull Edenburrow they led him thair,
And on a gallows hung:

They hung him high aboon the rest,
He was so trim a boy:

Thair dyed the youth whom I lued best,
My handsome Gilderoy.

Thus having yielded up his breath,
I bare his corpse away;
Wi' tears, that trickled for his death,
I washt his comelye clay;
And siker in a grave sae deep
I laid the dear-lued boy,
And now for evir maun I weep
My winsome Gilderoy.

$112. Song. Bryan and Pereene, a WestIndian Ballad, founded on a real Fact that kappened in the Island of St. Christopher's. GRAINGER.

THE north-east wind did briskly blow,
The ship was safely moor'd;
Young Bryan thought the boat's crew slow,
And so leap'd overboard.

Pereene, the pride of Indian dames,
His heart long held in thrall;
And whoso his impatience blames,
I wot, ne'er lov'd at all.

A long long year, one month and day,
He dwelt on English land;
Nor once in thought or deed would stray,
Though ladies sought his hand.
For Bryan he was tall and strong,

Right blythesome roll'd his een;
Sweet was his voice whene'er he sung:
He scant had twenty seen.

But who the countless charms can draw,
That graced his mistress true?
Such charms the old world seldom saw,
Nor oft, I ween, the new:

Her raven hair plays round her neck,
Like tendrils of the vine;
Her cheeks red dewy rose-buds deck,
Her eyes like diamonds shine.

Soon as his well-known ship she spied,
She cast her weeds away;
And to the palmy shore she hied,
All in her best array.
In sea-green silk so neatly clad
She there impatient stood;
The crew with wonder saw the lad
Repel the foaming flood.

Her hands a handkerchief display'd,
Which he at parting gave;
Well pleas'd the token he survey'd,
And manlier beat the wave.
Her fair companions one and all
Rejoicing crowd the strand;
For now her lover swam in call,
And almost touch'd the land.
Then through the white surf did she haste,
To clasp her lovely swain;
When, ah! a shark bit through his waist:
His heart's blood dyed the main ;

He shriek'd! his half sprang from the wave,
Streaming with purple gore;

And soon it found a living grave,

And, ah! was seen no more.
Now haste, now haste, ye maids, I pray,
Fetch water from the spring:
she dies away,
And soon her knell they ring.

She falls, she swoons,

Now each May-morning round her tomb,
Ye fair, fresh flowrets strew;
So may your lovers scape his doom,
Her helpless fate scape you!

§ 113. Song. Gentle river, gentle river: translated from the Spanish. PERCY.

Although the English are remarkable for the number and variety of their ancient ballads, and retain perhaps a greater fondness for these old simple rhapsodies of their ancesto's than most other nations, they are not the only people who have distinguished themselves by compositions of this kind. The Spaniards have great multitudes of them, many of which are of the highest merit. They call them in their language Romances. Most of them relate to their conflicts with the Moors, and display a spirit of gallantry peculiar to that romantic people. The two following are specimens.

GENTLE river, gentle river,

Lo, thy streams are stain'd with gore; Many a brave and noble captain Floats along thy willow'd shore. All beside thy limpid waters, All beside thy sand so bright, Moorish chiefs, and Christian warriors, Join'd in fierce and mortal fight.

Lords and dukes, and noble princes,

On thy fatal banks were slain : Fatal banks, that gave to slaughter All the pride and flow'r of Spain! There the hero, brave Alonzo,

Full of wounds and glory died; There the fearless Urdiales

Fell a victim by his side.

Lo! where yonder Don Saavedra Through their squadrons slow retires; Proud Seville his native city,

Proud Seville his worth admires.

Close behind, a renegado

Loudly shouts, with taunting cry: Yield thee, yield thee, Don Saavedra! Dost thou from the battle fly? Well I know thee, haughty Christian, Long I liv'd beneath thy roof; Oft I've in the lists of glory Seen thee win the prize of proof. Well I know thy aged parents, Well thy blooming bride I know; Seven years I was thy captive,

Seven years of pain and woe.

May our Prophet grant my wishes,

Haughty chief, thou shalt be mine: Thou shalt drink that cup of sorrow Which I drank when I was thine. Like a lion turns the warrior,

Back he sends an angry glare: Whizzing came the Moorish javelin, Vainly whizzing through the air. Back the hero full of fury

Sent a deep and mortal wound: Instant sunk the renegado

Mute and lifeless on the ground. With a thousand Moors surrounded, Brave Saavedra stands at bay: Wearied out, but never daunted, Cold at length the warrior lay.

Near him fighting, great Alonzo

Stout resists the paynim bands; From his slaughter'd steed dismounted, Firm intrench'd behind him stands. Furious press the hostile squadron,

Furious he repels their rage. Loss of blood at length enfeebles:

Who can war with thousands wage? Where yon rock the plain o'ershadows, Close beneath its foot retir'd, Fainting sunk the bleeding hero, And without a groan expir'd.

§114. Alcanzor and Zaida, a Moorish Tale: | Well thou know'st how dear I lov'd thee,

imitated from the Spanish.

PERCY.

SOFTLY blow the evening breezes,
Softly fall the dews of night;
Yonder walks the Moor Alcanzor,
Shunning ev'ry glare of light.
In yon palace lives fair Zaida,
Whom he loves with flame so pure:
Loveliest she of Moorish ladies,
He a young and noble Moor.
Waiting for th' appointed minute,
Oft he paces to and fro:
Stopping now, now moving forwards,
Sometimes quick, and sometimes slow.
Hope and fear alternate tease him,
Oft he sighs with heartfelt care.
See, fond youth, to yonder window
Softly steps the tim'rous fair.
Lovely seems the moon's fair lustre
To the lost benighted swain,
When all silvery bright she rises,
Gilding mountain, grove, and plain.
Lovely seems the sun's full glory

To the fainting seaman's eyes,
When, some horrid storm dispersing,
O'er the wave his radiance Alies.
But a thousand times more lovely
To her longing lover's sight,
Steals half-seen the beauteous maiden
Through the glimmerings of the night.
Tip-toe stands the anxious lover,
Whispering forth a gentle sigh:
Alla keep thee, lovely lady!
Tell me, am I doom'd to die?
Is it true, the dreadful story
Which thy damsel tells my page,
That, seduc'd by sordid riches,
Thou wilt sell thy bloom to age?
An old lord from Antiquera

Thy stern father brings along ;
But canst thou, inconstant Zaida,
Thus consent my love to wrong?
If 'tis true, now plainly tell me,

Nor thus trifle with my woes;
Hide not then from me the secret
Which the world so clearly knows.
Deeply sigh'd the conscious maiden,
While the pearly tears descend;
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;
heart;
My stern father breaks my
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!

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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In summer time when leaves grow greene,
And blossoms bedecke the tree,

King Edward wolde a hunting ryde,
Somme pastime for to see.

With hawke and hounde he made him bowne,'
With horne, and eke with bowe;
To Drayton Basset he took his waye,
With all his lordes arowe.

And he had ridden ore dale and downe
By eight o'clocke in the day,
When he was ware of a bold tannèr,
Come ryding along the waye.

Alla is the Mahometan name of God.

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