He sent his man unto her then, To the town where shee was dwellin; For death is printed on his face, Though death be printed on his face, So slowly, slowly, she came up, are you tellin? from death; your I cannot keep you As she was walking ore the fields, 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, For I shall dye to-morrowe. O that I had been more kind to him, 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 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. A fine dinner was drest, both for him and his guests; He was plac'd at the table above all the rest, With a rich golden canopy over his head : While the tinker did dine, he had plenty of wine, 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; Must tumble down, And plant fresh laurels where they kill; They stoop to fate, Then boast no more your mighty deeds: See where the victor victim bleeds. Only the actions of the just § 110. Song. SMOLLETT. I know it, friend, she's light as air, Ah, friend! 'tis but a short-liv'd trance, So soft, so elegant, so fair, Sure something more than human's there : § 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, Oh! sike twe charming een he had, A breath as sweet as rose; Ah! wae is mee! I mourn the day, 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 And when of me his leave he tuik, The tears they wet mine ee; I gave tull him a parting luik, My benison gang wi' thee! God speed thee weil, mine ain dear heart, My heart is rent, sith we maun part, My Gilderoy, baith far and near, At length wi' numbers he was tane, Wae worth the loun that made the laws, To reave of life for ox or ass, For sheep, or horse, or mare: Had not their laws been made sae strick, Wi' sorrow neir had wat my cheek Giff Gilderoy had done amisse, To hang sike handsome men! Of Gilderoy sae fraid they were, They bound him mickle strong, They hung him high aboon the rest, Thair dyed the youth whom I lued best, Thus having yielded up his breath, $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, Pereene, the pride of Indian dames, A long long year, one month and day, Right blythesome roll'd his een; But who the countless charms can draw, Her raven hair plays round her neck, Soon as his well-known ship she spied, Her hands a handkerchief display'd, He shriek'd! his half sprang from the wave, And soon it found a living grave, And, ah! was seen no more. She falls, she swoons, Now each May-morning round her tomb, § 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, To the fainting seaman's eyes, Thy stern father brings along ; Nor thus trifle with my woes; Here our tender loves must end. Well are known our mutual vows; Storms of passion shake the house. 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, I no longer may resist them; This weak frame I must resign. Yet think not thy faithful Zaida Canst thou, wilt thou, yield thus to them? Spies surround me, bars secure: In summer time when leaves grow greene, King Edward wolde a hunting ryde, With hawke and hounde he made him bowne,' And he had ridden ore dale and downe Alla is the Mahometan name of God. |