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, I weene, 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 sac 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 courage bauld wad try;

And now this gars mine heart to bleed
For my dear Gilderoy.

And when of me his leave he tuik,

I

The tears they wet mine ee; gave tull him a parting luik,

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 hac 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 nickle 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 happened 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 falls, she swoons, she dies away,
And soon her knell they ring.

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 ancestors 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,

gore;

Lo, thy streams are stain'd with 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.

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 Яlies.
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; My stern father breaks my heart; 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!

A fayre russet coat the tanner had on
Fast buttoned under his chin;
And under him a good cow-hide,

And a mare of four shilling.

Nowe stand you still, my good lordes all,
Under the greene wood spraye,
And I will wende to yonder fellowe,

To weet what he will saye.

God speede, God speede thee, said our king.
Thou art welcome, sir, sayde hee.
The readyest waye to Drayton Basset
I praye thee to shewe to mee.
To Drayton Basset wouldst thou goe,

Fro the place where thou dost stand,

The next payre of gallowes thou comest unto,
Turn in upon thy right hand.

That is an unready waye, sayd the king,
Thou doest but jest, I see:
Now shewe me out the nearest waye,
And I pray thee wend with mee.
Awaye with a vengeance! quoth the tanner,
I hold thee out of thy witt:

All daye have I ridden on Brocke my mare,
And I am fasting yett.

Go with me downe to Drayton Basset,
No daynties we will spare:

All daye shalt thou eate and drink of the best,
And I will paye thy fare.

Gramercye for nothing, the tanner replyde,
Thou payest no fare of mine:

I trow I've more nobles in my purse,
Than thou hast pence in thine.

God give thee joy of them, sayd the king,
And send them well to priefe.
The tanner wolde faine have been away,

For he weende he had beene a thiefe. What art thou, he sayde, thou fine fellowe?

Of thee I'm in greate feare;

For the cloathes thou wearest upon thy backe
Might beseeme a lord to weare.

I never stole them, quoth our king,
I tell you, sir, by the roode.
Then thou playest as many an unthrift doth,
And standeth in midds of thy goode.
What tydings heare you, sayd the kynge,
As you ryde far and neare?

I hear no tydings, sir, by the masse,
But that cow-hides are deare.
Cowe-hides! cowe-hides! what things are
those?

I marvell what they bee?
What, art thou a foole? the tanner reply'd;
I carry one under mee.

What craftsman art thou? said the king;
I pray thee tell me trowe.
I am a barker*, sir, by trade;

Now tell me what art thou?

I am a poore courtier, sir, quoth he,
That am forth of service worne;
And fain I wolde thy prentise bee,
Thy cunninge for to learne.

Marrye, heaven forfend, the tanner replyde,
That thou my prentise were:

Thou woldst spend more good than I shold winn,
By fortye shilling a yere.

Yet one thinge wold I, sayd our king,
If thou wilt not seeme strange;
Thoughe my horse be better than thy mare,
Yet with thee I faine wold change.

Why if with me thou faine wilt change,
As change full well maye wee,

By the faith of my bodye, thou proude fellowe,
I will have some boot of thee.

That were against reason, sayd the king,
I sweare, so mote I thee:"
My horse is better than thy mare,
And that thou well mayst see.

Yea, sir, but Brocke is gentle and mild,
And softly she will fare:

Thy horse is unrulye and wild, I wiss;
Aye skipping here and theare.

What boote wilt thou have? our king replied;
Now tell me in this stounde.

Noe pence, nor half-pence, by my faye,
But a noble in gold so rounde.
Here's twenty groates of white moneyè,
Sith thou wilt have it of mee.

I would have sworne now, quoth the tannèr,
Thou hadst not had one pennie.

But since we two have made a change,
A change we must abide;
Although thou hast gotten Brocke my mare,
Thou gettest not my cowe-hide.

I will not have it, sayde the kynge,
I sweare, so mote I thee;

Thy foule cowe-hide I would not beare,
If thou woldst give it mee.

The tanner he took his good cowe-hide,
That of the cowe was hilt;
And threwe it upon the king's saddèlle,
That was so fayrely gilte.

Now help me up, thou fine fellowe,
'Tis time that I were gone:
When I come home to Gyllian my wife,
She'll say I'm a gentilmon.

The kinge he took him by the legge;

The tanner a f*** let fall.

Now marrye, good fellowe, said the kinge,
Thy courtesye is but small.

When the tanner he was in the king's saddèlle,
And his foote in the stirrup was,
He marvelled greatlye in his minde,

Whether it were golde or brass.

But when his steede saw the cows-taile wagge, And eke the black cowe-horne,

He stamped, and stared, and awaye he ranne, As the devill had him borne.

The tanner he pull'd, the tanner he sweat,

And held by the pummil fast;

At length the tanner came tumbling downe: His necke he had well-nye brast.