« PreviousContinue »
He sent his man unto her then,
whether it may be thought to have suggested the To the town where shee was dwellin; hint to the dramatic poet, or is not rather of later You must come to my master deare,
date, the reader must determine. Giff your name be Barbara Allen.
The story is told of Philip the Good, Duke of BurFor death is printed on his face,
gundy; and is thus related by an old English writer:
« The said Duke, at the marriage of Eleonora, sister And ore his harte is stealin: Then hasie away to confort him,
to the King of Portugall, at Bruges, in Flanders,
which was solemnized in the deepe of winter; when O lovely Barbara Allen.
as by reason of unseasonable weather he could neither Though death he printed on his face,
hawke nor hunt, and was now tired with cards, dice, And ore his harte is stealin :
&c. and such other domestic sports, or to see ladies Yet little beiter shall he bee
dance; with some of his courtiers, he would in the For bonny Barbara Allen.
evening walke disguised all about the towne. It so
fortuned, as he was walking late one night, he found So slowly, slowly, she came up,
a country fellow dead drunke, snorting on a bulke; And slowly she came nye him;
he caused his followers to bring him to his palace, And all she sayd, when there she came,
and there stripping him of his old clothes, and atYoung man, I think y're dying.
tyring him after the court fashion, when he awakened, He torn'd his face unto her strait,
he and they were all ready to attend upon his excelWith deadlye sorrow sighing;
lency, and persuade him that he was somegreat duke. lovely naid, come piry mee,
The poor fellow, admiring how he came there, was
served in state all day long: after supper, he saw Ime on my death-bed lying.
them dance, heard musicke, and all the rest of those If on your death-bed you doe lye,
court-like pleasures : but late at night, when he was What needs the tale you are tellin?
well tippled, and again faste asleepe, they put on his I cannot keep you from your death;
old robes, and so conveyed him to the place where Farewell, sayd Barbara Allen.
they first found him. Now the fellow had not made
them so good sport the day before, as he did now, He turned his face unto the wall,
when he returned to himself: all the jest was to see As deadly pangs he fell in :
how he looked upon it. In conclusion, after some Adieu, adieu! adieu to all!
little admiration, the poor man told his friends he Adieu to Barbara Allen!
had seen a vision; constantly believed it; would not
otherwise be persuaded, and so the jest ended.” As she was walking ore the fields, She heard the bells a knellin;
Burton's Anatomy of Melancholy, pt. 2. sect. 2.
memb. 4. 2d ed. 1624, fol. And every stroke did seem to saye,
Now as fame does report, a young
duke Unworthye Barbara Allen.
keeps a court,
[sport : She turned her bodye round about,
One that pleases his fancy with frolicksome And spied the corpse a coming;
But among all the rest, here is one I protest, Laye down, laye down the corps, she sayd, Which will make you to smile when you hear That I may look upon him.
the true jest.
[ground, With skornful
A poor tinker he found lying drunk on the Her cheek with laughter swellin;
As secure in a sleep as if laid in a swound. Whilst all her friends cryed out amaine, The duke said to his men, William, Richard, Unworthy Barbara Allen.
and Ben, When he was dead, and laid in grave,
Take him home to my palace, we'll sport with Her harte was struck with sorrowe.
convey'd O mother, mother, make my bed,
O'er a horse he was laid, and with care soon For I shall dye to-morrowe.
To the palace, although he was poorly arrayd: Hard-harted creature, him to slight,
Then they stript off his clothes, both his shirt, Who loved me so dearlye:
shoes, and hose, O that I had been more kind to him,
And they put him to bed for to take his repose. When he was alive and neare me! Having pullid off his shirt, which was all over She, on her death-bed as she laye,
[no great hurt : Beg'd to be buried by him;
They did give him clean Holland, which was
On a bed of soft down, like a lord of renown, And sore repented of the daye That she did ere denye him.
They did lay him to sleep the drink out of his Farewell, she said, ye virgins all,
In the morning when day, then admiring he lay, And shun the fault I fell in;
For to see the rich chamber both gaudy and gay. Henceforth take warning by the fall
Now he lay something late, in his rich bed of Of cruel Barbara Allen.
[wait; Till at last Knights and squires they on him did
And the chamberlain bare then did likewise 5 108. The Frolicksome Duke, or the Tinker's declare, good Fortune.
He desired to know what apparel he'd wear : The following ballad is upon the same subject as the The poor tinker amaz’d, on the gentleman gaz'd,
Induction to Shakspeare's Taming of the Shrew: | And admired how he to his honor was rais d.
Though he seem'd something mute, yet he | Then the tinker replied, What! must Joan my chose a rich suit,
sweet bride, Which he straitways put on without longer Be a lady, in chariots of pleasure to ride? dispute;
(eyed, Must we have gold and land ev'ry day at comWith a star on each side, which the tinker oft mand? And it seem'd for to swell him no little with Then I shall be a squire I well understand : pride ;
[wife? Well, I thank your good grace, and your love For he said to himself, Where is Joan my sweet I embrace; Sure she never did see me so fine in her life. I was never before in so happy a case. From a convenient place the right duke his
good grace Did observe his behaviour in every case. $ 109. Song. Death's final Conquest. To a garden of state on the tinker they wait, Trumpets sounding before him; thought he, These fine moral stanzas were originally intended for This is great :
a solemn funeral song in a play of James Shirley's [view,
intitled, The Contention of Ajax and Ulysses Where an hour or two pleasant walks he did
Shirley flourished as a dramatic writer early in the With commanders and squires in scarlet and
reign of Charles I. but he outlived the Restoration. blue.
His death happened Oct. 23, 1666, æt. 72. It is said
to have been a favourite song with King Charles II. A fine dinner was drest, both for him and his
The glories of our birth and state guests; He was plac'd at the table above all the rest,
Are shadows, not substantial things; In a rich chair or bed, lined with fine crimson There is no armor against fate : red,
Death lays his icy hands on kings: With a rich golden canopy over his head :
Sceptre and crown As he sat at his meat the music play'd sweet,
Must tumble down, With the choicest of singing, his joys to com
And in the dust be equal made plete.
With the poor crooked sithe and spade.
Some men with swords may reap the field, While the tinkerdid dine, he had plenty of wine,
And plant fresh laurels where they kill; Rich canary and sherry, and tent superfine.
But their strong nerves at last inust yield, Like a right honest soul, faith, he took off his
They tame but one another still. bowl,
Early or late Till at last he began for to tumble and roll From his chair to the floor, where he sleeping And must give up their murmuring breath,
They stoop to fate,
When they, pale captives, creep to death. Being seven times drunker than ever before.
The garlands wither on your brow; Then the duke did ordaine, they should strip
Then boast no more your mighty deeds: him amain,
Upon death's purple altar now And restore him his old leather garments again :
See where the victor victim bleeds. 'Twas a point next the worst, yet perform it
All heads must come they must,
[him at first;
To the cold tomb :
(Alight. But when he did waken his joys took their For his glory to him so pleasant did seem,
$ 110. Song. SMOLLETT. That he thought it to be but a mere golden dream;
To fix her, 'twere a task as rain
I know it, friend, she's light as air,
Inconstant as the passing wind, Then his highness bespoke him a new suit and As winter's dreary' frost unkind. cloke,
Though hundreds of gallants await Thou shalt never, said he, range the counteries From her victorious eyes their fate. Crying, Old brass to mend; for I'll be thy good Blushing at such inglorious reign, friend,
I sometimes strive to break my chain; Nay, and Joan thy sweet wife shall my duchess My reason summon to my aid, attend.
Resolve no more to be betray'd.
Ah, friend ! 'tis but a short-liv'd trance,
And when of me his leave he tuik, Dispell'd by one enchanting glance;
The tears they wet mine ee; She need but look, and I confess
gave tull him a parting luik, Those looks completely curse or bless.
My benison gang wi' thee! So soft, so elegant, so fair,
God speed thee weil, mine ain dear heart,
For gane is all my joy; Sure something more than human's there :
My heart is rent, sith we maun part, I must submit, for strife is vain ;
My handsome Gilderoy!” 'Twas destiny that forg'd the chain.
My Gilderoy, baith far and near, § 111. Song. Gilderoy.
Was fear'd in ev'ry toun,
the He was a famous robber, who lived about the middle of And bauldly bare away
gear the 17th century; if we may credit the histories and Of many a lawland loun: story-books of highwaymen, which relate many im- Nane eir durst meet him man to man, probable feats of him, as bis robbing Cardinal Riche- He was sae brave a boy; liea, Oliver Cromwell, &c. But these stories have pro- At length wi' numbers he was tane, bably no other authority than the records of Grub- My winsome Gilderoy.
Wae worth the loun that made the laws, GILDEROY was a bonnie boy,
To hang a man for gear, Had roses tull his shoone,
To reave of life for ox or ass, His stockings were of silken soy,
For sheep, or horse, or mare : Wi' garters hanging doune:
Had not their laws been made sae strick, It was, 1 weene, a comelie sight,
I neir had lost my joy; To see sae trim a boy;
Wi' sorrow neir
had wat my cheek He was my joy and heart's delight,
For my dear Gilderoy. My handsome Gilderoy.
Giff Gilderoy had done amisse, Oh! sike twe charming een he had,
He mought hae banisht been ; A breath as sweet as rose;
Ah, what sair cruelty is this, He never ware a Highland plaid,
To hang sike handsome men !
To hang the Aower o' Scottish land,
Sae sweet and fair a boy;
Nae lady had so white a hand Ah! wae is mee! I mourn the day,
As thee, my Gilderoy.
Of Gilderoy sae fraid they were,
They bound him inickle 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: Were fill'd wi' mickle joy,
Thair dyed the youth whom I lued best, To think upon the bridal day
My handsome Gilderoy. 'Twixt me and Gilderoy.
Thus having yielded up his breath, For Gilderoy, that love of mine,
I bare his corpse away; Gude faith, I freely bought
Wi' tears, that trickled for his death, A wedding sark of Holland fine
I washt his comelye clay; Wi' silken flowers wrought:
And siker in a grave sae deep And he gied me a wedding-ring,
I laid the dear-lued boy, Which I receiv'd with joy,
And now for evir maun I weep
My winsome Gilderoy.
Till we were baith sixteen,
Song: Bryan and Pereene, a WestAft on the banks we'd sit us thair,
Indian Ballad, founded on a real Fact that And sweetly kiss and toy;
happened in the Island of St. Christopher's. Wi' garlands gay wad deck
The north-east wind did briskly blow, Wi' me to lead his life;
The ship was safely moord; But, ah! his manfu' heart was bent
Young Bryan thought the boat's crew slow, To stir in feats of strife!
And so leap'd overboard. And he in many a venturous deed
Pereene, the pride of Indian dames, His courage bauld wad try;
His heart long held in thrall; And now this gars mine heart to bleed And whoso his impatience blames, For my dear Gilderoy.
I wot, ne'er lov'd at all.
A long long year, one month and day, Gentle river, gentle river,
Lo, thy streams are stain'd with gore;
Floats along thy willow'd shore. For Bryan he was tall and strong,
All beside thy limpid waters, Righit blythesome roll’d his een;
All beside thy sand so bright, Sweet was his voice whene'er he sung: Moorish chiefs, and Christian warriors, He scant had twenty seen.
Join'd in fierce and mortal fight. But who the countless charms can draw,
Lords and dukes, and noble princes, That graced his mistress true? Such charms the old world seldom saw,
On thy fatal banks were slain :
Fatal banks, that gave to slaughter Nor oft, I ween, the new :
All the pride and flow'r of Spain ! Her raven hair plays round her neck, Like tendrils of the vine;
There the hero, brave Alonzo,
Full of wounds and glory died ; Her cheeks red dewy rose-buds deck,
There the fearless Urdiales
Fell a victim by his side.
Lo! where yonder Don Saavedra
Through their squadrons slow retiree; All in her best array.
Proud Seville his native city,
Proud Seville his worth admires. In sea-green silk so neatly clad She there impatient stood;
Close behind, a renegado The crew with wonder saw the lad
Loudly shouts, wiih taunting cry: Repel the foaming flood.
Yield thee, yield thee, Don Saavedra!
Dost thou from the baule Aly?
Well I know thee, haughty Christian, Well pleas'd the token he survey'd,
Long I liv'd beneath thy roof; And inanlier beat the wave.
Oft I've in the lists of glory Her fair companions one and all
Seen thee win the prize of proof. Rejoicing crowd the strand;
Well I know thy aged parents, For now her lover swam in call,
Well thy blooming bride I know; And almost touch'd the land.
Seven years I was thy captive, Then through the white surf did she haste, Seven years of pain and woe. To clasp her lovely swain;
May our Prophet grant my wishes, When, ab! a shark bit through his waist :
Haughty chief, thou shalt be mine: His heart's blood dyed the main;
Thou shalt drink that cup of sorrow He shriek d! his half sprang from the wave, Which I drank when I was thine. Streaming with purple gore;
Like a lion turns the warrior, And soon it found a living grave,
Back he sends an angry glare: And, ah! was seen no more.
Whizzing came the Moorish javelin, Now haste, now haste, ye maids, I pray, Vainly wbizzing through the air.
Fetch water from the spring:
Back the hero full of fury
Sent a deep and mortal wound:
Instant sunk'the renegado Now each May-morning round her tomb, Mute and lifeless on the ground. Ye fair, fresh flowrets strew;
With a thousand Moors surrounded, So may your lovers scape his doom,
Brave Saavedra stands at bay: Her helpless fate scape you !
Wearied out, but nerer daunted,
Cold at length the warrior lay.
Near him fighting, great Alonzo § 113. Song. Gentle river, gentle river : translated from the Spanish. Percy.
Stout resists the paynim bands;
From his slaughter'd steed dismounted, Although the English are remarkable for the number Firm intrench'd behind him stands.
and variety of their ancient ballads, and retain perhaps Furious press the hostile squadron, a greater fondness for these old simple rhapsodies of
Furious he repels their rage. their ancesto's than most other nations, they are not the only people who have distinguished themselves by Loss of blood at length enfeebles : compositions of this kind. The Spaniards have great Who can war with thousands wage? multitudes of them, many of which are of the highest merit
. They call them in their language Romances. Where yon rock the plain o'ershadows, Most of them relate to their conflicts with the Moors,
Close beneath its foot retird, and display a spirit of gallantry peculiar to that ro- | Fainting sunk the bleeding hero, mantic people. The two following are specimens.
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. Spite of all their hateful pride, SOFTLY blow the evening breezes,
Though I fear'd my haughty father Softly fall the dews of night;
Ne'er would let me be thy bride. Yonder walks the Moor Alcanzor,
Well thou know'st what cruel chidings Shunning ev'ry glare of light.
Oft I've from my mother borne, In yon palace lives fair Zaida,
What I've suffer'd here to meet thee Whom he loves with Aame so pure :
Still at eve and early morn. Loveliest she of Moorish ladies,
I no longer may resist them; He a young and noble Moor.
All to force my hand combine ; Waiting for th' appointed minute,
And to-morrow to thy rival Oft he paces to and fro:
This weak frame I must resign. Stopping now, now moving forwards,
Yet think not thy faithful Zaida Sometimes quick, and sometimes slow.
Can survive so great a wrong; Hope and fear alternate tease him,
Well my breaking heart assures me Oft he sighs with heartfelt care.
That my woes will not be long. See, food youth, to yonder window
Farewell then, my dear Alcanzor! Softly steps the tim'rous fair.
Farewell too my life with thee! Lovely seems the moon's fair lustre
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; Lovely seems the sun's full glory
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 sighd; 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 ? Whispering forth a gentle sigh:
No; a thousand times I'll perish! Alla • keep thee, lovely lady!
My curst rival too shall fall. Tell me, am I doom'd to die?
Canst thou, wilt thou, yield thus to them? Is it true, the dreadful story
O break forth, and fly to me! Which thy dainsel tells my page,
This fond heart shall bleed to save thee, That, seduc'd by sordid riches,
These fond arms shall shelter thee. Thou wilt sell thy bloom to age?
'Tis in vain, in vain, Alcanzor; An old lord from Antiquera
Spies surround me, bars secure: Thy stern father brings along;
Scarce I steal this last dear moment, But canst thou, inconstant Zaida,
While my damsel keeps the door. Thus consent my love to wrong?
Hark, I hear my father storming! If 'tis true, now plainly tell me,
Hark, I hear my mother chide! Nor thus trifle with my woes ;
I must go ; farewell for ever!
Gracious Alla be thy guide !
While the pearly tears descend;
$ 115. King Edward IV. and the Tanner of Here our tender loves must end.
Tamworth. Our fond friendship is discoverd,
In summer time when leaves grow greene, Well are known our mutual rows;
And blossoms bedecke the tree, All my friends are full of fury;
King Edward wolde a hunting ryde, Storms of passion shake the house.
Somme pastime for to see. Threats, reproaches, fears, surround me; With hawke and hounde he made him bowne, My stern father breaks my heart;
With horne, and eke with bowe; Alla knows how dear it costs me,
To Drayton Basset he took his waye, Gen'rous youth, from thee to part.
With all his lordes arowe.
And he had ridden ore dale and downe
When he was ware of a bold tanner,
Come ryding along the waye, • Alla is the Mahometan name of God.