Her corpse shall be attended By art and nature's skill, Ding, &c. Ding, &c. In token of good will*; Ding, &c. Ding, &c. And with my tears, as showers, I'll keepe them fresh and green. Ding, &c. Instead of fairest colours, Set forth with curious art†, Her image shall be painted On my distressed heart. Ding, &c. And thereon shall be graven Her epitaph so faire, "Here lies the loveliest maiden In sable will I mourne; Blacke shall be all my weede : With an old hall, hung about with pikes, guns, and bows, With old swords, and bucklers, that had borne many shrewde blows, And an old frize coat, to cover his worship's And a cup of old sherry to comfort his copper was come, To call in all his old neighbours with bagpipe Like an old courtier, &c. With an old falconer, huntsman, and a kennel of hounds, That never hawked nor hunted but in his own grounds, Who, like a wise man, kept himself within his own bounds, And when he dyed gave every child a thousand good pounds; Like an old courtier, &c. But to his eldest son his house and land he as- "That e'er gave shepherd care." Ding, &c. To be good to his old tenants, and to his neigh § 118. The old and young Courtier. The subject of this excellent old song is a comparison between the manners of the old gentry as still sub sisting in the times of Elizabeth, and the modern AN old song made by an aged old pate, That kept a brave old house at a bountiful rate, Like an old courtier of the queen's, wages, And never knew what belonged to coachman, With an old study fill'd full of learned old books, It is a custom in many parts of England, to carry a fine garland before the corpse of a woman who dies unmarried. This alludes to the painted effigies of alabaster anciently erected upon tombs and monuments. With a new study stuft full of pamphlets and plays, [prays, And a new chaplain, that swears faster than he With a new buttery-hatch that opens once in four or five days, And a new French cook to devise fine kickshaws and toys; Like a young courtier, &c. With a new fashion, when Christmas is drawing on, On a new journey to London straight we all must be gone, And leave none to keep house, but our new porter John, Who relieves the poor with a thump on the back with a stone; Like a young courtier, &c. With a new gentleman-usher, whose carriage is complete, With a new coachman, footmen, and pages to carry up the meat, With a waiting gentlewoman, whose dressing is very neat, Who, when her lady has din'd, lets the servants not eat; Like a young courtier, &c. With new titles of honor bought with his father's old gold, For which sundry of his ancestors' old manors are sold; [hold, And this is the course most of our new gallants Which makes that good house-keeping is now grown so cold Among the young courtiers of the king, Or the king's young courtiers. $119. Loyalty confined. The cynic loves his poverty; Naked on frozen Caucasus : 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, Or, like the great mogul or pope, Am cloyster'd up from public sight: Retiredness is a piece of majesty, And thus, proud Sultan, I'm as great as thee. Here sin for want of food must starve, Where tempting objects are not seen; And these strong walls do only serve To keep vice out, and keep me in: Malice of late's grown charitable, sure; I'm not committed, but am kept secure. So he that struck at Jason's life, Thinking t' have made his purpose sure, By a malicious friendly knife, Did only wound him to a cure. When once my prince affliction hath, This excellent old song is preserved in David Lloyd's When kings want ease, subjects must bear a part. "Memoires of those that suffered in the cause of Charles I." 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. That which the world miscalls a jail, A private closet is to me : The salamander should be burn'd: What though I cannot see my king, That renders what I have not mine: 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! I am that bird, whom they combine Yet, maugre hate, my soul is free: And though immur'd, yet can I chirp, and sing My soul is free as ambient air, Or like those sophists that would drown a fish, Although rebellion do my body binde, I am constrain'd to suffer what I wish. My king alone can captivate my minde. § 120. To Althea from Prison. This excellent Sonnet, which possessed a high degree of fame among the old Cavaliers, was written by Colonel Richard Lovelace during his confinement in the Gate-house, Westminster; to which he was committed by the House of Commons, in April 1642, for presenting a petition from the county of Kent, requesting them to restore the king to his rights, and to settle the government. See Wood's Athenæ, vol. ii. p. 228; where may be seen at large the affecting story of this elegant writer; who, after having been distinguished for every gallant and polite accomplishment, the pattern of his own sex, and the darling of the ladies, died in the lowest wretchedness, obscurity, and want, in 1658. WHEN love with unconfined wings And my divine Althea brings To whisper at my grates; When I lye tangled in her haire, And fetter'd with her eye, The birds that wanton in the aire Know no such libertie. When flowing cups run swiftly round When, linnet-like, confined I Th' enlarged windes that curle the flood Stone walls do not a prison make, Minds innocent and quiet take That for an hermitage: If I have freedom in my love, § 121. The Braes of Yarrow, in Imitation of the ancient Scots Manner. Was written by William Hamilton of Bangour, Where gat ye that winsome marrow? Puing the birks on the Braes of Yarrow. Weep not, weep not, my bonny bonny bride! Weep not, weep not, my winsome marrow! Nor let thy heart lament to leive Puing the birks on the Braes of Yarrow. 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? 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 pierc'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; The apple frae its rock as mellow. Busk ye, busk ye, my winsome marrow, And think nae mair on the Braes of Yarrow. B. 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 love on the Braes of Yarrow ? Queene; and the son of a king is in the same poem called Child Tristram." And it ought to be observed 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, 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 My happy sisters may be, may be proud; My brother Douglas may upbraid, upbraid, 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, A. Return, return, O mournful mournful bride, 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 him a fayre yonge ladye cane As ever ware womans weede. Sayes, Christ you save! good Childe Waters, And all is with one childe of yours, My gowne of greene it is too strait; If the childe be mine, faire Ellen, he sayd, Then take you Cheshire and Lancashire both, If the childe be mine, faire Ellen, he sayd, Then take you Cheshire and Lancashire both, Shee sayes, I had rather have one kine, Than I wolde have Cheshire and Lancashire And I had rather have one twinkling, [both, Then I wolde have Cheshire and Lancashire my foot-page bee, Ellen, As doe tell to mee; you Then you must cut your gowne of greene Soe must you doe your yellowe lockes, You must tell no man what is my name; Shee, all the long daye Childe Waters rode, Yet was he never soe courteous a knighte, Shee, all the long daye Childe Waters rode, But when shee came to the water syde, Our Ladye bare up her chinne: 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: Seest thou not yonder hall, Ellen? Of red gold shines the towre: I see the hall now, Childe Waters, I see the hall now, Childe Waters, But that his bellye it is soe bigge, And ever, I pray you, Childe Watèrs, That has run thro mosse and myre, It is more meete for a little foot-page, Now when they had supped every one, Goe thee downe unto yonder towne, Ellen is gone into the towne, And lowe into the streete; I pray you nowe, good Childe Watèrs, He gave her leave, and faire Ellèn Up then rose the fayre Ellen, And gave his steede corne and haye; She leaned her back to the manger side, She heard her woeful woe, She sayd, Rise up, thou Childe Watèrs, For in thy stable is a ghost, That grievouslye doth grone: Up then rose Childe Waters soone, She sayd, Lullabye, mine owne deare childe, I wolde thy father were a kinge, |