Abbildungen der Seite

Her corpse shall be attended
By maides in faire array,
Till th' obsequies are ended,
And she is wrapt in clay.
Her herse it shall be carried
By youths that do excel;
And when that she is buried,
I thus will ring her knell.
A garland shall be framed

By art and nature's skill,
Of sundry-colour'd flowers,

Ding, &c.

Ding, &c.

In token of good will*;
And sundry-colour'd ribbands
On it I will bestow;
But chiefly blacke and yellowe
With her to grave shall go.
I'll deck her tomb with flowers,
The rarest ever seen; ̧

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 :

[blocks in formation]

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
trunk hose,

And a cup of old sherry to comfort his copper
Like an old courtier, &c. [nose,
With a good old fashion, when Christmasse

was come,

To call in all his old neighbours with bagpipe
and drum,
With good cheer enough to furnish every old
And old liquor able to make a cat speak, and
man dumb;

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-
[tifull mind,
Charging him in his will to keep the old boun

"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
refinements affected by their sons in the reigns of
her successors.

AN old song made by an aged old pate,
Of an old worshipful gentleman who had a
great estate,

That kept a brave old house at a bountiful rate,
And an old porter to relieve the poor at his gate;

Like an old courtier of the queen's,
And the queen's old courtier.
With an old ladywhose anger one word asswages;
They every quarter paid their old servants their


And never knew what belonged to coachman,
footmen, nor pages,
But kept twenty old fellows with blue coats and
Like an old courtier, &c.

With an old study fill'd full of learned old books,
With an old reverend chaplain, you might
know him by his looks,
With an old buttery-hatch worn quite off the
[zen old cooks;
And an old kitchen that maintain'd half a do-
Like an old courtier, &c.

[blocks in formation]

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;
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;
And, for to keep my ancles warm,

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.
Malice, I see, wants wit; for what is meant
Mischief, oftimes proves favour by th' event.

When once my prince affliction hath,
Prosperity doth treason seem;
And to make smooth so rough a path,
I can learn patience from him:
Now not to suffer, shows no loyal heart;

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 :
Whilst a good conscience is my bail,
And innocence my liberty;
Locks, bars, and solitude, together met,
Make me no prisoner, but an anchoret.
I, whilst I wish'd to be retir'd,
Into this private room was turn'd,
As if their wisdoms had conspir'd

The salamander should be burn'd:

What though I cannot see my king,
Neither in person or in coin;
Yet contemplation is a thing

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 prove
That all her bars are trees, her cage a grove.

I am that bird, whom they combine
Thus to deprive of liberty;
But though they do my corps confine,

Yet, maugre hate, my soul is free:

And though immur'd, yet can I chirp, and sing
Disgrace to rebels, glory to my king!

My soul is free as ambient air,
Although my baser part's immew'd,
Whilst loyal thoughts do still repair
T accompany my solitude:

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
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 eye,

The birds that wanton in the aire

Know no such libertie.

When flowing cups run swiftly round
With no allaying Thames,
Our carelesse heads with roses crown'd,
Our hearts with loyal flames;
When thirsty griefe in wine we steepe,
When healths and drafts goe free,
Fishes that tipple in the deepe,
Know no such libertie.

When, linnet-like, confined I
With shriller note shall sing
The mercye, sweetness, majestye,
And glories, of my king;
When I shall voyce aloud how good
He is, how great should be,

Th' enlarged windes that curle the flood
Know no such libertie.

Stone walls do not a prison make,
Nor iron barres a cage;

Minds innocent and quiet take

That for an hermitage:

If I have freedom in my love,
And in my soul am free,
Angels alone, that soare above,
Enjoy such libertie.

§ 121. The Braes of Yarrow, in Imitation of the ancient Scots Manner.

Was written by William Hamilton of Bangour,
Esq. who died March 25, 1754, aged 50.
A. BUSK ye, busk ye, my bonny bonny bride,
Busk ye, busk ye, my winsome marrow,
Busk ye, busk ye, my bonny bonny bride,
And think no mair on the Braes of Yarrow.
B. Where gat ye that bonny bonny bride?

Where gat ye that winsome marrow?
A. I gat her where I dare na weil be seen,

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.

[blocks in formation]

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;
As sweet smells on its braes the birk,

The apple frae its rock as mellow.
Fair was thy luve, fair, fair indeed thy luve,
In flow'ry bands thou didst him fetter;
Though he was fair, and well beluv'd again,
Than me he never lov'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. 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 ?

[blocks in formation]

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,
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

[blocks in formation]

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

A. 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

him a fayre yonge ladye cane

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,
I feele sturre at side:

My gowne of greene it is too strait;
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 ee;


Then I wolde have Cheshire and Lancashire
To take them mine owne to bee. [both,
To-morrow, Ellen, I must forth ryde
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.

[blocks in formation]

my foot-page bee, Ellen, As doe tell to mee; you


you must cut your gowne of greene
An inch above your knee.

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

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.

[blocks in formation]

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 sister,
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.

[blocks in formation]

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!

[blocks in formation]
« ZurückWeiter »