And soone before our king they came, Then woulde he lever than twentye pounde A coller, a coller, the tanner he sayd, And I shall be hanged to-morrowe. But thou shalt have a knight's fee. 'Tis worth three hundred markes by the yeare, $116. Lady Ann Bothwell's Lament. A Scottish Song. The subject of this pathetic ballad is, A lady of quality of the name of BOTHWELL, or rather BOSWELL, having been, together with her child, deserted by her husband or lover, composed these affecting lines herself. BALOW, my babe, ly stil and sleipe! It grieves me sair to see thee weipe; Balow, my babe, ly stil and sleipe! Balow, &c. Ly stil, my darlinge, sleipe a while, I cannae chuse, but ever will My love with him maun still abyde: * $117. Corydon's doleful Kne The burthen of the song, DING, DON, present appropriated to burlesque sche therefore may excite only ludicrous modern reader, but in the time of e usually accompanied the most son mournful strains. MY Phillida, adieu love! For evermore farewel! Ding dong, ding dong, ding dong For my fair Phillida Our bridal bed was made: But 'stead of silkes so gay, She in hershroud is laid. Her corpse shall be attended D D It is a custom in many parts of England, to carry a fine garland before the corpse of a who dies unmarried. nd sundry-colour'd ribbands On it I will bestow; it chiefly blacke and yellowe With her to grave shall go. I deck her tomb with flowers, The rarest ever seen, id with my tears, as showers, With an old falooner, huntsman, and a kennel Ding, &c. Who, like a wise man, kept himself within his own bounds, [good pounds: And when he dyed gave every child a thousand Like an old courtier, &c. I'll keepe them fresh and green. Ding, &c. But to his eldest sou his house and land he as stead of fairest colours, Set forth with curious art,* r image shall be painted On my distressed heart. Ding, &c. d thereon shall be graven Ier epitaph so faire, Here lies the loveliest maiden sable will I mourne; bours be kind: sign'd, [fall mind, Charging him in his will to keep the old bouatiTo be good to his old tenants, and to his neigh[was inclin'd: But in the ensuing ditty you shall hear how he Like a young courtier of the king's, And the king's young courtier. That e'er gave shepherd care." Ding, &c. Like a flourishing young gallant, newly come Blacke shall be all my weede, me! I am forlorne," Now Phillida is dead. Ding, &c. swages; wages, y every quarter paid their old servants their [footmen, nor pages, never knew what belonged to coachmen, kept twenty old fellows with blue coats and badges; Like an old courtier, &c. han old study fill'd full of learned old books, han old reverend chaplain, you might know him by his looks, [hooks, h an old buttery-hatch worn quite off the Ian old kitchen that maintain'd half a dozen old cooks: Like an old courtier, &c. h an old hall, hung about with pikes, guns, and bows, [many shrewde blows, h old swords, and bucklers, that had borne I an old frize coat, to cover his worship's trunk hose, 1 a cup of old sherry to comfort his copper Like an old courtier, &c. was come, to his land, [command, Who keeps a brace of painted madams at his Aud takes up a thousand pound_upon his father's land, [go nor stand! And gets drunk in a tavern, till he can neither Like a young courtier, &c. With a new-fangled lady, that is dainty, nice, and spare, Who never knew what belonged to good housekeeping, or care; Who buys gaudy-colour'd fans to play with wanton air, And seven or eight different dressings of other [women's hair; Like a young courtier, &c. With a new-fashion'd hall, built where the old one stood, [no good, Hunground with new pictures that do the poor With a fine marble chimney, wherein burns neither coal nor wood, And a new smooth shovelboard, whereon no victuals e'er stood; Like a young courtier, &c. With a new study stuft full of pamphlets and plays, [prays, And a new chaplain, that swears faster than he With a new buttery-hitch that opens once in And a new French cook to devise fine kickfour or five days, [shaws and toys; Like a young courtier, &c. With a new fashion, when Christmas is draw ing on, [must be gone, On a new journey to London straight we all And leave none to keep house, but our new [with a stone: porter John, Who relieves the poor with a thump on the back h a good old fashion, when Christmasse [and drum, call in all his old neighbours with bagpipe th good cheer enough to furnish every old [man dumb old liquor able to make a cat speak, and Like an old courtier, &c. room, Who, With new titles of honour bought with his fa- This alludes to the painted effigies of alabaster anciently erected upon tombs and monuments. And this is the course most of our new gallants hold, [grown so cold Which makes that good house-keeping is now Among the young courtiers of the king, Or the king's young courtiers. $119. Loyalty confined. This excellent old song is preserved in David Lloyd's Memoires of those that suffered in the “cause of Charles L." He speaks of it as the composition of a worthy personage, who suffered deeply in those times, and was still living. with no other reward than the conscience of having suffered. The author's name he has not mentioned; but, if tradition may be credited, this song was written by Sir R. L'ESTRANGE BEAT on, proud billows; Boreas, blow: Swell, curled waves, high as Jove's roof; Your incivility doth show, That innocence is tempest proof; Though surly Nereus frown, my thoughts are calm; Then strike, Affliction, for thy wounds are balm. A private closet is to me: I, whilst I wish'd to be retir'd, The salamander should be burn'd; Or like those sophists that would drown a fish, I am constrain'd to suffer what I wish. The cynic loves his poverty; The pelican her wilderness; And 'tis the Indian's pride to be Naked on frozen Caucasus: Contentment cannot smart: Stoics, we see, Make torments easie to their apathy. These manicles upon my arm I as my mistress' favours wear; I have some iron shackles there : These walls are but my garrison; this cell, Which men call jail, doth prove my citadel. I'm in the cabinet lock'd up, Like some high prized margarite, Here sin for want of food must starve, To keep vice out, and keep me in: So he that struck at Jason't lie, Thinking t' have made his purpose sure, By a malicious friendly knife, Did only wound him to a cute: Malice, I see, wants wit; for what is ment Mischief, oftimes proves favour by th' ever When once my prince affiction hath, Prosperity doth treason seem; And to make smooth so rough a path, I can learn patience from him: Now not to suffer shews no loyal heart; When kings want ease, subjects must ben part. What though I cannot see my king That renders what I have not mine: My king from me what adamant can part, Whom I do wear engraven on my heart? Have you not seen the nightingale, A prisoner like, coopt in a cage; How doth she chant her wonted tale In that her narrow hermitage! Even then her charming melody doth p That all her bars are trees, her cage a gro I am that bird, whom they combine Thus to deprive of liberty; But though they do my corps confint, Yet, maugre hate, my soul is free: And though immar'd, yet can I chirp, : Disgrace to rebels, glory to my king! My soul is free as ambient air, Although my baser part's immew' Whilst loyal thoughts do still repair Taccompany my solitude: Although rebellion do my body binde, My king alone can captivate my minde. § 120. To Althea from Prism. This excellent Sonnet, which possessed a p gree of fame among the old Cavaliers, wa ten by Colonel Richard Lovelace d confinement in the Gate-house, Wes to which he was committed by the Her Commons, in April 1642, for presenting tion from the county of Kent, requesting to restore the king to his rights, and n the government. See Wood's Athenz p. 228; where may be seen at large the a story of this elegant writer; who, afte beer distinguished for every gallant and accomplishment, the pattern of his and the darling of the ladies, died in the wretchedness, obscurity, and want, in hi WHEN love with unconfined wing Hovers within my gates, And my divine Althea brings To whisper at my grates; When I lye tangled in her haire, And fetter'd with her eve, The birds that wanton in theaire Know no such libertie, hen flowing cups run swiftly round With no allaying Thames, ir carelesse heads with roses crown'd, hen, linnet-like, confined I hen I shall voyce aloud how good one walls do not a prison make, 21. The Braes of Yarrow, in Imitation of the ancient Scots Manner, is written by William Hamilton of Bangour, Puing the birks on the Braes of Yarrow. Why does she weep, thy bonny bonny bride? Why does she weep, thy winsome marrow? And why dare ye nae mair weil be seen Puing the birks on the Braes of Yarrow? Lang maun she weep, lang maun she, mauu she weep, Lang maun she weep with dule and sorrow; And lang maun I nae mair weil be seen Puing the birks on the Braes of Yarrow. For she has tint her luver, luver dear, Her luver dear, the cause of sorrow; And I hae slain the comliest swain That eir pu'd birks on the Braes of Yarrow. Why rins thy stream, O Yarrow, Yarrow reid? Why on thy braes heard the voice of sorrow? And why yon melancholious weids Hung on the bonny birks of Yarrow? B. What's yonder floats on the rueful, rueful Aude? What's yonder floats? Odule and sorrow! O'tis he, the comely swain I slew Upon the duleful Braes of Yarrow! Wash, O wash his wounds, his wounds in tears, His wounds in tears, with dule and sorrow; And wrap his limbs in mourning weids, And lay him on the Braes of Yarrow ! Then build, then build, ye sisters, sisters sad, Ye sisters sad, his tomb with sorrow; And weep around in waeful wise His hapless fate on the Braes of Yarrow. Curse ye, curse ye, his useless, useless shield, My arm that wrought the deed of sorrow, The fatal spear that piere'd his breast, His comely breast on the Braes of Yarrow. Did I not warn thee, not to, not to luve? And warn from fight? but, to my sorrow, Too rashly bauld, a stronger arm Thou mett'st, and fell'st on the Braes of Sweet smells the birk, green grows, green grows the grass, Yellow on Yarrow's banks the gowan, Fair hangs the apple frae the rock, Sweet the wave of Yarrow flowan. Flows Yarrow sweet? as sweet, as sweet flows Tweed, As green its grass, its gowan as yellow, Fair was thy luve, fair, fair indeed thy luve, In flow'ry bands thou didst him fetter; Tho' he was fair, and well beluv'd again, Than me he never luv'd thee better. Busk ye, then busk, my bonny bonny bride, Busk ye, busk ye, my winsome marrow, Busk ye, and luve me on the banks of Tweed, And think nae mair on the Braes of Yarrow. How can I busk a bonny bonny bride? How can I busk a winsome marrow? How luve him upon the banks of Tweed, That slew my luve on the Braes of Yarrow? O Yarrow fields, may never, never rain, Nor due 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. The boy took out his milk-white, milk-white steed; Unheedful of my dule and sorrow; But, ere the dewfall of the night, Hely a corpse on the Brats of Yarrow. Much Much I rejoic'd that waeful, waeful day; How canst thou, barbarous man? then My happy sisters may be, may be proud; How canst thou ever bid me luve thee? Let in the expected husbande luver. But who the expected husband, husband is? Sayes, Christ you save! good Childe Waters; And all is with one childe of yours, I feele sturre at my side: My gowne of greene it is too straight; If the childe be mine, faire Ellen, he sat, If the childe be mine, faire Ellen, he sayt, Than I wolde have Cheshire and Lanes And I had rather have one twinkling, His hands, methinks, are bath'd in slaugh-Then I wolde have Cheshire and Lanes Ah me! what ghastly spectre's von [ter: To take them mine owne to bee. Comes in his pale shroud, bleeding afterTo-morrow, Ellen, I must forth ryde 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. No youth lay ever there before thee. A. Return, return, O mournful, mournful Return, and dry thy useless sorrowe; § 122. Childe Waters. CHILD is frequently used by our old writers as a title. It is repeatedly given to Prince Arthur in the Fairie Queen; and the son of a king is in the same poem call'd" Child Tristram." And it ought to be observed that the word child or chield is still used in North Briton 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 stecde: To him a fayre yonge ladye came As ever ware womans weede. Farr into the north countree; Thoughe I am not that ladye fayre, Yet let me goe with thee: If you will my foot-page bee, Ellen, Soe must you doe your yellowe lockes, Shee, all the long daye Childe Waters ro, Yet was he never soe courteous a knight. | Hee sayth, Seest thou yond water, Ella, |