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Ah, friend! 'tis but a short-liv'd trance,
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
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;
Ah! wae is mee! I mourn the day,
My Gilderoy and I were born
Our daddies and our mammies thay
Wi' mickle joy we spent our prime,
Wi' garlands gay wad deck
My handsome Gilderoy.
Oh! that he still had been content
But, ah! his manfu' heart was bent
And he in many a venturous deed
And now this gars mine heart to bleed
And when of me his leave he tuik,
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,
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:
Wi' sorrow neir had wat my cheek
Giff Gilderoy had done amisse,
He mought hac banisht been;
To hang sike handsome men!
Of Gilderoy sae fraid they were,
They bound him nickle strong,
They hung him high aboon the rest,
Thair dyed the youth whom I lued best,
Thus having yielded up his breath,
Wi' tears, that trickled for his death,
I laid the dear-lued boy,
$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,
Pereene, the pride of Indian dames,
His heart long held in thrall;
And whoso his impatience blames,
A long long year, one month and day,
But who the countless charms can draw,
Soon as his well-known ship she spied,
All in her best array.
And almost touch'd the land.
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,
She falls, she swoons, she dies away,
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 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,
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.
§ 114. Alcanzor and Zaida, a Moorish Tale: | Well thou know'st how dear I lov'd thee,
imitated from the Spanish.
SOFTLY blow the evening breezes,
To the fainting seaman's eyes,
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.
Canst thou, wilt thou, yield thus to them?
* Alla is the Mahometan name of God.
A fayre russet coat the tanner had on
And a mare of four shilling.
Nowe stand you still, my good lordes all,
To weet what he will saye.
God speede, God speede thee, said our king.
Fro the place where thou dost stand,
The next payre of gallowes thou comest unto,
That is an unready waye, sayd the king,
All daye have I ridden on Brocke my mare,
Go with me downe to Drayton Basset,
All daye shalt thou eate and drink of the best,
Gramercye for nothing, the tanner replyde,
I trow I've more nobles in my purse,
God give thee joy of them, sayd the king,
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
I never stole them, quoth our king,
I hear no tydings, sir, by the masse,
I marvell what they bee?
What craftsman art thou? said the king;
Now tell me what art thou?
I am a poore courtier, sir, quoth he,
Marrye, heaven forfend, the tanner replyde,
Thou woldst spend more good than I shold winn,
Yet one thinge wold I, sayd our king,
Why if with me thou faine wilt change,
By the faith of my bodye, thou proude fellowe,
That were against reason, sayd the king,
Yea, sir, but Brocke is gentle and mild,
Thy horse is unrulye and wild, I wiss;
What boote wilt thou have? our king replied;
Noe pence, nor half-pence, by my faye,
I would have sworne now, quoth the tannèr,
But since we two have made a change,
I will not have it, sayde the kynge,
Thy foule cowe-hide I would not beare,
The tanner he took his good cowe-hide,
Now help me up, thou fine fellowe,
The kinge he took him by the legge;
The tanner a f*** let fall.
Now marrye, good fellowe, said the kinge,
When the tanner he was in the king's saddèlle,
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.
* Dealer in bark.
Take thy horse again with a vengeance, he sayd, | Balow, my boy, thy mithers joy,
My horse would have borne thee well enoughe,
By the faith of thy bodye, thou jolly tannèr,
What boote wilt thou have, the tanner reply'd,
Noe pence, nor half-pence, sir, by my faye,
And I have one more, which we will spend
The kinge set a bugle horne to his mouthe,
Nowe, out alas! the tanner he cryde,
That ever I sawe this daye! Thou art a strong thefe, you come thy fellowes my cowe-hide away.
They are no thieves, the king replyde,
I sweare, so mote I thee:
But they are the lords of the north countrèy,
And soone before our king they came,
And knelt downe on the grounde:
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.
Thy father breides me great annoy.
Balow, my babe, ly stil and sleipe!
Ly stil, my darlinge, sleipe a while,
I cannae chuse, but ever will
But doe not, doe not, prettie mine,
And nevir change hir for a new:
For evermore farewell!
Ay me! I've lost my true love,
Ding dong, ding dong, ding dong,
I'll stick a branch of willow
At my fair Phillis' head.
She in her shroud is laid.