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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.

Queene; and the son of a king is in the same poem
called "Child Tristram." And it ought to be ob-
served that the word child or chield is still used in
North Britain to denominate a man, commonly
with some contemptuous character affixed to him,
but sometimes to denote man in general.

CHILDE Waters in his stable stoode,
And stroakt his milke-white steede :

The boy took out his milk-white, milk-To

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!

How canst thou, barbarous man! then
wooe me?

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
me;

My luver's blood is on thy spear!

How canst thou ever bid me luve thee? Yes, yes, prepare the bed, the bed of luve, With bridal sheets my body cuver: Unbar, ye bridal maids, the door,

Let in the expected husbande luver.

him a fayre yonge ladye came

As ever ware womans weede.

Sayes, Christ you save! good Childe Waters,
Sayes, Christ you save! and see,
My girdle of gold, that was too longe,
Is now too short for mee.

And all is with one childe of yours,
My gowne of greene it is too strait;
I feele sturre at my side:
Before it was too wide.

If the childe be mine, faire Ellen, he sayd,
Be mine, as you tell mee;

Then take you Cheshire and Lancashire both,
Take them your owne to bee.

If the childe be mine, faire Ellen, he sayd,
Be mine, as you doe sweare;

Then take you Cheshire and Lancashire both,
And make that childe your heyre.

Shee sayes, I had rather have one kine,
Childe Waters, of thy mouth;

Than I wolde have Cheshire and Lancashire
That lye by north and southe.

And I had rather have one twinkling,
Childe Waters, of thine ce;

[both,

Then I wolde have Cheshire and Lancashire
To take them mine owne to bee.

But who the expected husband, husband is?
His hands, methinks, are bath'd in slaugh-To-morrow, Ellen, I must forth ryde

ter:

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 lavely, luvely youth,
Forgive, forgive so foul a slaughter,
And lye all night between my briests,
No youth shall ever lye there after.

4. 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.

§ 122. Childe Waters. CHILD is frequently used by our old writers as a title. It is repeatedly given to Prince Arthur in the Faerie

[both,

Farr into the north countree;
The fayrest ladye that I can finde,
Ellen, must go with mee.
Thoughe I am not that ladye fayre,
Yet let me goe with thee:
And ever, I pray you, Childe Waters,
Your foot-page let me bee.
If you will my foot-page bee, Ellèn,
As you doe tell to mee;
Then you must cut your gowne of greene
An inch above your knee.

Soe must you doe your yellowe lockes,
An inch above your ee:

You must tell no man what is my name;
My foot-page then you shall bee.

Shee, all the long daye Childe Waters rode,
Ran barefoot by his syde;
Yet was he never soe courteous a knighte,
To say, Ellen will
you ryde?

Shee, all the long daye Childe Waters rode,
Ran barefoote thorow the broome;
Yet was he never soe courteous a knighte,
To say, Put on your shoone.

Ride softlye, shee sayd, O Childe Waters,
Why doe you ride so fast?

The childe, which is no man's but thine,
My body itt will brast.

Hee sayth, Seest thou yond water, Ellen,
That flows from banke or brimme?-
I trust in God, O Childe Watèrs,

You never will see * ine swimme!

But when shee came to the water syde,
She sayled to the chinne :
Nowe the Lorde of Heaven be my speede,
For I must learne to swimme!
The salt waters bare up her clothes;
Our Ladye bare up her chinne:
Childe Waters was a woe man, good Lord,
To see faire Ellen swimme!

And when shee over the water was,

Shee then came to his knee;

Hee sayd, Come hither, thou fayre Ellèn,
Loe yonder what I see!

Seest thou not yonder hall, Ellen?

Of red gold shines the yate:
Of twenty-four faire ladyes there,
The fairest is my mate.

Seest thou not yonder hall, Ellen?

Of red gold shines the towre:
There are twenty-four fayre ladyes there,
The fayrest is my paramoure.

I see the hall now, Childe Waters,
Of red gold shines the yate:
God give you good now of yourselfe,
And of your worthy mate.

I see the hall now, Childe Waters,
Of red gold shines the towre:
God give you good now of yourself,
And of your paramoure.
There twenty-four fayre ladyes were
A playing at the ball;
And Ellen, the fayrest ladye there,
Must bring his steed to the stall.
There twenty-four fayre ladyes were
A playinge at the chesse;
And Ellen, the fayrest ladye there,
Must bring his horse to gresse.

And then bespake Childe Waters sistèr,
These were the wordes sayd shee:
You have the prettyest page, brother,
That ever I did see.

But that his bellye it is soe bigge,
His girdle stands soe hye:

And ever, I pray you, Childe Watèrs,
Let him in my chamber lye.

It is not fit for a little foot-page,

That has run thro mosse and myre;
To lye in the chamber of any ladye
That wears so rich attyre.
• Permit, suffer.

+ Defiling.

It is more meete for a little foot-page,
That has run throughe mosse and myre,
To take his supper upon his knee,
And lye by the kitchen fyre.
Now when they had supped every one,
To bedd they tooke theyre waye :
He sayd, Come hither, my little foot-page,
And hearken what I saye:

Goe thee downe unto yonder towne,
And lowe into the streete;
The fayrest ladye that thou canst finde
Hyre, in mine armes to sleepe;
And take her up in thine armes twaine,
For filing of her feete.

Ellen is gone into the towne,

And lowe into the streete;
The fayrest ladye that she colde finde,
She hyred in his armes to sleepe;
And took her up in her armes twayne,
For filing of her feete.

I pray you nowe, good Childe Watèrs,
Let me lye at your feete:
For there is noe place about this house
Where i may saye ‡ a sleepe.

He gave her leave, and faire Ellèn
Down at his beds feet laye :
This done, the night drove on apace;
And, when it was near the daye,
Hee sayd, Rise up, my little foot-page!
Give my steede corne and haye;
And give him nowe the good black oates,
To carry mee better awaye.

Up then rose the fayre Ellen,

And gave his steede corne and haye;
And soe shee did the good black oates,
To carry him better awaye.

She leaned her back to the manger side,
And grievouslye did groane:
Shee leaned her back to the manger side,
And there she made her moane.

And that beheard his mother deare,

She heard her woeful woe,

She sayd, Rise up, thou Childe Watèrs,
And into thy stable goe;

For in thy stable is a ghost,

That grievouslye doth grone:

Or else some woman laboures with childe,
She is so woe-begone.

Up then rose Childe Waters soone,
And did on his shirte of silke;
And then he put on his other clothes,
On his bodye as white as milke.
And when he came to the stable dore,
Full still there hee did stand,
That he might heare his fayre Ellen,

Howe shee made her monand §.

She sayd, Lullabye, mine owne deare childe,
Lullabye, deare childe, dear:

I wolde thy father were a kinge,
Thy mother layd on a biere!

+ Essay, attempt.

§ Moaning, bernoaning.

Peace nowe, hee sayd, good faire Ellen,
Bee of good cheere, I praye!
And the bridale and the churchinge bothe
Shall be upon one daye.

§ 123. The King and the Miller of Mansfield. It has been a favourite subject with our English balladmakers, to represent our kings conversing either by accident or design with the meanest of their subjects. Of the former kind, besides this song of the King and the Miller, we have King Henry and the Soldier; King James I. and the Tinker; K. William III. and the Forester, &c. Of the latter sort are K. Alfred and the Shepherd; K. Edward IV. and the Tanner; K. Henry VIII. and the Cobbler, &c.--This is a piece of great antiquity, being written before the time of Edward IV.; and for its genuine humour, diverting incidents, and faithful picture of rustic manners, is infinitely superior to all that have been

since written in imitation of it.

Part the First.

HENRY, our royall king, would ride a hunting To the greene forest so pleasant and faire, To see the harts skipping, and dainty does tripping:

Unto merry Sherwood his nobles repaire; Hawke and hound were unbound, all things prepar'd

For the game, in the same, with good regard. All along summers day rode the king pleasantly, With all his prices and nobles eche one; Chasing the hart and hind, and the bucke gallantlye, [home. Till the darke evening forced all to turne Then, at last, riding fast, he had lost quite All his lords in the wood, late in the night. Wandering thus wearilye, all alone, up and downe,

With a rude miller he mett at the last:

Asking the ready way unto faire Nottingham: Sir, quoth the miller, I mean not to jest, Yet I think, what I thinke sooth for to say, You doe not lightlye ride out of your way. Why, what dost thou think of me, quoth our king merrily,

Passing thy judgment on me so briefe ? Good faith, said the miller, I mean not to

flatter thee;

I guess thee to be but some gentleman thiefe; Stand thee backe, in the darke; light notadowne, Lest I presently cracke thy knaves crowne. Thou dost abuse me much, quoth the king, sayI am a gentleman; lodging I lacke. [ing thus; Thou hast not, quoth the miller, one groat in

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Better I'll know thee, ere hands we will shake; With none but honest men hands will I take. Thus they went all along unto the miller's house; [souse: Where they were scething of puddings and The miller first entered in, after him went the king,

Never came hee in soe smoakye a house. Now, quoth he, let me see here what you are. Quoth our king, Look your fill, and do not spare, I like well thy countenance, thou hast an honest face; [lye, With my son Richard this night thou shalt Quoth his wife, By my troth, it is a handsome youth,

Yet its best, husband, to deal warilye. Art thou no runaway, prythee, youth, tell? Shew me thy passport, and all shal be well. Then our king presentlye, making lowe cour

tesye

With his hatt in his hand, thus he did say: I have no passport, nor never was servitor,

But a poor courtyer rode out of my way: And for your kindness here offered to mee, I will requite you in everye degree. Then to the miller his wife whispered secretlye,

Saying, It seemeth this youth's of good kin, Both by his apparel, and eke by his manners;

To turne him out, certainlye, were a great sin. Yea, quoth hee, you may see, he hath some grace, When he doth speake to his betters in place.

Well, quo' the miller's wife, young man, ye're welcome here;

And, though I say it, well lodged shall be: Fresh straw will I have laid on thy bed so brave, And good brown hempen sheets likewise, quoth shee.

Aye, quoth the good man, and when that is Thou shalt lye with no worse than our own done, [sonne.

Nay, first, quoth Richard, goode-fellowe, tell me true,

Hast thou noe creepers within thy gay hose? Or art thou not troubled with the scabbado? I pray, quoth the king, what creatures are

those?

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And of his sweetnesse a little we'll taste.
A faire ven'son pastye brought she out pre-
sentlye.
[waste:
Eate, quoth the miller, but, sir, make no
Here's dainty Lightfoote! In faith, said the
I never before eate so dainty a thing. [king,
I wis, quoth Richard, no dainty at all it is,
For we do eat of it everye day. [like to this?
In what place, sayd our king, may be bought
We never pay pennye for itt, by my fay:
From merry Sherwood we fetch it home here;
Now and then we make bold with our king's
deer.

Then I thinke, sayd our king, that it is venison.
Eche foole, quoth Richard, full well may

know that:

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WHENAS Our royall king was come home from
Nottingham,

And with his nobles at Westminster lay;
Recounting the sports and pastimes they had
In this late progress along on the way; [taken
Of them all, great and small, he did protest,
The miller of Mansfield's sport liked him best.
And now, my lords, quoth the king, I am de-
termined,

Against St. George's next sumptuous feast,
That this old miller, our new-confirmed knight,
With his son Richard, shall here be my guest:
For, in this merriment, 'tis my desire
To talke with the jolly knight, and the young |
squire.

Whenas the noble lords sawe the kinges plea

santness,

hearts:

They were right joyfull and glad in their
[business,
A pursuivante there was sent straight on the
The which had oftentimes been in those parts.
When he came to the place where they did dwell,
His message orderlye then gan he tell.
God save your worshippe, then said the mes
senger,

And grant your ladye her owne hearts desire; And to your sonne Richard good fortune and happiness;

That sweet, gentle, and gallant young squire!
Our king greets you well, and thus he doth say,
You must come to the court on St.Georges day.
Therefore, in any case, faile not to be in place.
I wis, quoth the miller, this is an odd jest:
What should we doe there? faith, I am halfe
afraid.
[least.

I doubt, quoth Richard, to be hang'd at the
Nay, quoth the messenger, you doe mistake;
Our king he provides a great feast for your sake.
Then sayd the miller, By my troth, messenger,

Thou hast contented my worshippe full well. Hold, here are three farthings, to quite thy gentleness

For these happy tydings which thou dost tell. Let me see, heare thou mee; tell to our king, We'll wait on his mastershipp in every e thing. The pursuivant smiled at their simplicitye,

And, making many leggs, tooke their reward;
And his leave taking with great humilitye,

To the kings court againe he repair'd';
Shewing unto his grace, merry and free,
The knightes most liberall gift and bountie.
When he was gone away, thus gan the miller say:

Now must we needs be brave, tho' we spend
Here come expences and charges indeed!

all we have;

For of new garments we have great need: Of horses and serving-men we must have store, With bridles and saddles, and twenty things

more.

Tushe! sir John, quoth his wife, why should you frett or frown?

You shall ne'er be att no charges for mee; For I will turn and trim up my old russet gowne, With every thing else as fine as may bee: And on our mill-horses swift we will ride, With pillowes and pannells as we shall provide. In this most stately sort rode they unto the court, Their jolly son Richard rode foremost of all; Who set up, for good hap, a cocks feather in his cap,

And so they jetted downe to the king's hall; The merry old miller with hands on his side; His wife like maid Marian did mince at that tide. The king and his nobles, that heard of their coming,

traine;

Meeting this gallant knight with his brave [lady ; Welcome, sir knighte, quoth he, with your gay Good sir John Cockle, once welcome againe:

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That wast my own bed-fellowe, well it I wot. Yea, sir, quoth Richard, and by the same token, Thou with thy farting didst make the bed hot. Thou whoreson unhappy knave, then quoth the knight,

Speak cleanly to our king, or else go sh*t*. The king and his courtiers laugh at this heartily, Whilethe king taketh them both by the hand; With the court dames' and maids, like to the queen of spades,

The miller's wife did so orderly stand, A milkmaids courtesye at every word; And downe all the folkes were set to the board.

There the king royally, in princelye majestye, Sate at his dinner with joy and delight; When they had eaten well, then he to jesting fell,

And in a bowle of wine dranke to the knight: Here's to you both, in wine, ale, and beer; Thanking you heartilye for my good cheer. Quoth sir John Cockle, I'll pledge you a pottle, Were it the best ale in Nottinghamshire. But then, said our king, now I think of a thing, Some of your Lightfoot I would we had here. Ho! ho! quoth Richard, full well I may say it, "Tis knavery to eate it, and then to betray it. Why art thou angry? quoth our king merrilye; In faith, I take it now very unkind :

I thought thou wouldst pledge me in ale and wine heartily.

Quoth Dicke, You are like to stay till I have
din'd:

You feed us with twatling dishes so small;
Zounds, a black pudding is better than all.

Aye, marry, quoth our king, that were a daintye thing,

Could a man get but one here for to eat. With that Dick straight arose, and pluck'd one from his hose,

Which with heat of his breech gan for to

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$124. The Witches' Song. From Ben Jonson's Masque of Queens, presented at Whitehall, Feb. 2, 1609.

It is true, this song of the Witches, falling from the learned pen of Ben Jonson, is rather an extract from the various incantations of classic antiquity, than a display of the opinions of our own vulgar. But let it be observed, that a parcel of learned wiseacres had just before busied themselves on this subject, with our Bri tish Solomon, James I., at their head; and these had so ransacked all writers, ancient and modern, and so blended and kneaded together the several superstitions of different times and nations, that those of genuine English growth could no longer be traced out and distinguished.

By good luck the whimsical belief of fairies and goblins could furnish no pretences for torturing our fellowcreatures, and therefore we have this handed down to us pure and unsophisticated.

1 Witch.

I HAVE beene all day looking after A raven feeding upon a quarter; I snatch'd this morsell out of her mouth. And, soone as she turn'd her back to the south;

2 Witch

I have beene gathering wolves haires,
The mad dogges foame, and adders eares;
The spurging of a dead man's eyes:
And all since the evening starre did rise.
3 Witch.
I last night lay all alone
O' the ground, to heare the mandrake grone;
And pluckt him up, though he grew full low:
And, as I had done, the cocke did erow.

4 Witch.

And I h' beene chusing out this scull,
From charnel houses that were full,
From private grots and publike pits:
And frighted a sexton out of his wits.
5 Witch.

Under a cradle I did creepe

By day, and when the childe was a-sleepe
At night, I suck'd the breath; and rose,
And pluck'd the nodding nurse by the nose.
6 Witch.

I had a dagger: what did I with that?
Killed an infant to have his fat:
A piper it got, at a church-ale:
I bade him again blow wind i' the taile.

7 Witch.

A murderer yonder was hung in chaines;
The sunne and the wind had shrunke his veines:
I bit off a sinew; I clipp'd his haire;
I brought off his ragges, that danc'd i' the ayre

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