you are tellin?

a

He sent his man unto her then,

whether it may be thought to have suggested the To the town where shee was dwellin; hint to the dramatic poet, or is not rather of later You must coine to my master deare,

date, the reader must determine. Giff your name be Barbara Allen.

The story is told of Philip the Good, Duke of BurFor death is printed on his face,

gundy; and is thus related by an old English writer: And ore his harte is stealin:

“ The said Duke, at the marriage of Eleonora, sister Then haste away to confort him,

to the King of Portugall, at Bruges, in Flanders,

which was solemnized in the deepe of winter; when O lovely Barbara Allen.

as by reason of unseasonable weather he could neither Though death be printed on his face,

hawke nor hunt, and was now tired with cards, dice, And ore his harte is stealin :

&c. and such other domestic sports, or to see ladies Yet little better shall he bee

dance; with some of his courtiers, he would in the For bonny Barbara Allen.

evening walke disguised all about the towne. It so

fortuned, as he was walking late one night, he found So slowly, slowly, she came up,

a country fellow dead drunke, snorting on a bulke; And slowly she came nye him;

he caused his followers to bring him to his palace, And all she sayd, when there she came, and there stripping him of his old clothes, and atYoung man, I think y're dying.

tyring bim after the court fashion, when he awakened, He turn'd his face unto her strait,

he and they were all ready to attend upon his excelWith deadlye sorrow sighing ;

lency, and persuade him that he was somegreat duke. O lovely maid, come pily mee,

The poor fellow, admiring how he came there, was

served in state all day long after supper, he saw Ime on my death-bed lying.

them dance, heard musicke, and all the rest of those If on your death-bed

you
doe lye,

court-like pleasures : but late at night, when he was What needs the tale

well tippled, and again faste asleepe, they put on his I cannot keep you from your death;

old robes, and so conveyed him to the place where Farewell, sayd Barbara Allen.

they first found him. Now the fellow had not made

them so good sport the day before, as he did now, He turned his face unto the wall,

when he returned to himself: all the jest was to see As deadly pangs he fell in :

how he looked upon it. In conclusion, after some Adieu, adieu! adieu to all!

little admiration, the poor man told his friends he Adieu to arbara Allen!

had seen a vision; constantly believed it; would not

otherwise be persuaded, and so the jest ended." As she was walking ore the fields,

Burton's Anatomy of Melancholy, pt. 2. sect. 2. She heard the bells a knellin;

memb. 4. 2d ed. 1624, fol. And every stroke did seem to saye, Unworthye Barbara Allen.

Now as fame does report, a young duke keeps a court,

(sport: She turned her bodye round about,

One that pleases his fancy with frolicksome And spied the corpse a coming;

But among all the rest, here is one I protest, Laye down, laye down the corps, she sayd, Which will make you to smile when you hear That I

may
look

the true jest.

(ground, With skornful eye she looked downe, A poor tinker he found lying drunk on the Her cheek with laughter swellin;

As secure in a sleep as if laid in a swound. Whilst all her friends cryed out amaine, The duke said to his men, William, Richard, Unworthy Barbara Allen.

and Ben, When he was dead, and laid in grave,

Take him home to my palace, we'll sport with Her harte was struck with sorrowe.

him then.

(convey'd O mother, mother, make my bed,

O'er a horse he was laid, and with care soon For I shall dye to-morrowe.

To the palace, although he was poorly arrayd: Hard-harted creature, him to slight,

Then they stript off his clothes, both his shirt,

shoes, and hose, Who loved me so dearlye: O that I bad been more kind to him,

And they put him to bed for to take his repose. When he was alive and neare me!

Having pullid off his shirt, which was all over She, on her death-bed as she laye,

dirt,

[no great hurt : Beg'd to be buried by him ;

They did give him clean Holland, which was

On a bed of soft down, like a lord of renown, And sore repented of the daye That she did ere denye him.

They did lay him to sleep the drink out of his

crown. Farewell, she said, ye virgins all,

In the morning when day, then admiring he lay, And shun the fault I fell in;

For to see the rich chamber both gaudy and gay. Henceforth take warning by the fall

Now he lay something late, in his rich bed of Of cruel Barbara Allen.

state,

[wait; Till at last knights and squires they on him did

And the chamberlain bare then did likewise $ 108. The Frolicksome Duke, or the Tinker's declare, good Fortune.

He desired to know what apparel he'd wear : The following ballad is upon the same subject as the The poor tinker amaz’d, on the gentleman gaz'd,

Induction to Shakspeare's Taming of the Shrew: | And admired how he to his honor was rais'd.

upon him.

a

Though he seem'd something mute, yet he | Then the tinker replied, What! must Joan my chose a rich suit,

sweet bride, Which he straitways put on without longer Be a lady, in chariots of pleasure to ride ? dispute;

seyed, Must we have gold and land ev'ry day at com. With a star on each side, which the tinker oft

mand? And it seem'd for to swell him no little with Then I shall be a squire I well understand : pride;

(wife? Well, I thank your good grace, and your love For he said to himself, Where is Joan my sweet I embrace; Sure she never did see me so fine in her life. I was never before in so happy a case. From a convenient place the right duke his

good grace Did observe his behaviour in every case. $ 109. Song. Death's final Conquest. To a garden of state on the tinker they wait, Trumpets sounding before him; thought he,

These fine moral stanzas were originally intended for This is great :

a solemn funeral song in a play of James Shirley's (view,

intitled, The Contention of Ajax and Ulysses. Where an hour or two pleasant walks he did

Shirley flourished as a dramatic writer early in the With commanders and squires in scarlet and

reign of Charles I. but he outlived the Restoration. blue.

His death happened Oct. 23, 1666, æt. 72. It is said

to have been a favourite song with King Charles II. A fine dinner was drest, both for him and his guests ;

The glories of our birth and state
He was plac'd at the table above all the rest, Are shadows, not substantial things;
In a rich chair or bed, lined with fine crimson There is no armor against fate:
red,

Death lays his icy hands on kings:
With a rich golden canopy over his head :

Sceptre and crown As he sat at his meat the music play'd sweet,

Must tumble down, With the choicest of singing, his joys to com

And in the dust be equal made plete.

With the poor crooked sithe and spade.

Some men with swords may reap the field, While the tinkerdid dine, he had plenty of wine,

And plant fresh laurels where they kill ; Rich canary and sherry, and tent superfine.

But their strong nerves at last inust yield, Like a right honest soul, faith, he took off his

They tame but one another still. bowl,

Early or late Till at last he began for to tumble and roll From his chair to the floor, where he sleeping and must give up their murmuring breath,

They did snore,

When they, pale captives, creep to death Being seven times drunker than ever before.

The garlands wither on your brow; Then the duke did ordaine, they should strip

Then boast no more your mighty deeds : him amain,

Upon death's purple aliar now And restore him his old leather garments again :

See where the victor victim bleeds.

All heads must come 'Twas a point next the worst, yet perform it they must,

[him at first;

To the cold tomb:
And they carried him straight where they found Only the actions of the just
Then he slept all the night, as indeed well he Smell sweet, and blossom, in the dust.
might;

[Alight. But when he did waken his joys took their For his glorg to him so pleasant did seem,

$ 110. Song. SMOLLETT. That he thought it to be but a mere golden dream;

[he sought

To fix her, 'twere a task as vain
Tillat length he was brought to the duke, where To count the April drops of rain,
Fora pardon, as fearing he'd set him at nought; To sow in Afric's barren soil,
But his highness he said, Thou ’rt a jolly bold Or tempests hold within a toil.
blade,

I know it, friend, she's light as air,
Such a frolic before I think never was play'd. False as the fowler's artful snare,

Inconstant as the passing wind, Then his highness bespoke him a new suit and As winter's dreary frost unkind. cloke,

sjoke; Which he gave for the sake of this frolicksome She's such a miser too in love, Nay, and five hundred pound, with ten acres of Its joys she'll neither share nor prove; ground:

[round,

Though hundreds of gallants await Thou shalt never, said he, range the counteries From her victorious eyes their fate. Crying, Old brass to mend; for I'll be thy good Blushing at such inglorious reign, friend,

I sometimes strive to break my chain; Nay, and Joan thy sweet wife shall my duchess My reason summon to my aid, attend.

Resolve no more to be betray'd.

a

street.

a

Ah, friend ! 'tis but a short-liv'd trance,

And when of me his leave he tuik, Dispelld by one enchanting glance;

The tears they wet mine ee;
She need but look, and I confess

I
gave

tull him a parting luik, Those looks completely curse or bless.

My benison gang wi' thee! So soft, so elegant, so fair,

God speed thee weil, mine ain dear heart,

For gane is all my joy;
Sure something more than human's there:
I must submit, for strife is vain ;

My heart is rent, sith we maun part,

My handsome Gilderoy!" 'Twas destiny that forg’d the chain.

My Gilderoy, baith far and near,
$111. Song. Gilderoy.

Was fear'd in ev'ry toun,
He was a fainous robber, who lived about the middle of | And bauldly bare away the gear

the 19th century; if we may credit the histories and Of many a lawland loun:
story-books of highwaymen, which relate many im- Nane eir durst meet him man to man,
probable feats of biin, as his robbing Cardinal Riche- He was sae brave a boy;
lieu, Oliver Cromwell, &c. But these stories have pro- At length wi' numbers he was tane,
bably no other authority than the records of Grub- My winsome Gilderoy.

Wae worth the loun that made the laws,
GILDEROY was a bonnie boy,

To hang a man for gear, Had roses tull his shoone,

To reave of life for ox or ass, His stockings were of silken soy,

For sheep, or horse, or mare : Wi' garters hanging doune:

Had not their laws been made sae strick, It was, 1 weene, a cornelie sight,

I neir bad lost my joy; To gee sae trim a boy;

Wi' sorrow neir had wat my cheek He was my joy and heart's delight,

For my dear Gilderoy. My handsome Gilderoy.

Giff Gilderoy had done amisse, Oh! sike twe charming een he had,

He mought hae banisht been; A breath as sweet as rose;

Ah, what sair cruelty is this, He never ware a Highland plaid,

To hang sike handsome men !
But costly silken clothes.

To hang the flower o' Scottish land,
He gain'd the luve of ladies gay,
Nane eir lull him was coy,

Sae sweet and fair a boy;

Nae lady had so white a hand Ah! wae is mee! ( mourn the day,

As thee, my Gilderoy. For my dear Gilderoy.

Of Gilderoy sae fraid they were, My Gilderoy and I were born

They bound hiin inickle strong, Baith in one toun together;

Tull Edenburrow they led him thair,
We scant were seven years beforn

And on a gallows hung:
We gan to luve each other;
Our daddies and our inammies thay

They hung him high aboon the rest,

He was so trim a boy: Were fill'd wi' mickle joy,

Thair dyed the youth whom I lued best, To think upon the bridal day

My handsome Gilderoy. 'Twixt me and Gilderoy.

Thus having yielded up his breath, For Gilderoy, that love of mine,

I bare his corpse away; Gude faith, I freely bought

Wi' tears, that irickled for his death, A wedding sark of Holland fine

I washt his comelye clay; Wi' silken flowers wrought:

And siker in a grave sae deep And he gied me a wedding-ring,

I laid the dear-lued boy, Which I receiv'd with joy,

And now for evir maun İ

weep Nae lad nor lassie eir could sing

My winsome Gilderoy.
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 sae green:

§ 112. Song. Bryan and Pereene, a WestAft on the banks we'd sit us thair,

Indian Bullad, founded on a real Fact that And sweetly kiss and toy;

kappened in the Island of St. Christopher's. Wi' garlands gay wad deck my hair

GRAINGER. My handsoine Gilderoy. Oh! that he still had been content

The north-east wind did briskly blow, Wi' me to lead his life;

The ship was safely moord; But, ah! his manfu' heart was bent

Young Bryan thought the boat's crew slow,

And so leap'd overboard.
To stir in feats of strife!
And he in many a venturous deed

Pereene, the pride of Indian dames,
His courage bauld wad try;

His heart long held in thrall; And now this gars mine heart to bleed And whoso his impatience blames, For my dear Gilderoy.

I wot, ne'er lov'd at all.

A long long year, one month and day, Gentle river, gentle river,
He dwelt on English land;

Lo, thy streams are stain'd with gore ;
Nor once in thought or deed would stray, Many a brave and noble captain
Though ladies sought his hand. ,

Floats along thy willow'd shore. For Bryan he was tall and strong,

All beside thy limpid waters, Right blythesome rollid his een ;

All beside thy sand so bright, Sweet was his voice whene'er he sung: Moorish chiefs, and Christian warriors, He scant had twenty seen.

Join'd in fierce and mortal fight. But who the countless charms can draw,

Lords and dukes, and noble princes, That graced his mistress true? Such charms the old world seldom saw,

On thy fatal banks were slain :

Fatal banks, that gave to slaughter
Nor oft, I ween,

the
new :

All the pride and flow'r of Spain !
Her raven bair plays round her neck,
Like tendrils of the vine;

There the hero, brave Alonzo,

Full of wounds and glory died; Her cheeks red dewy rose-buds deck,

There the fearless Urdiales
Her eyes like diamonds shine.

Fell a victim by his side.
Soon as his well-known ship she spied,
She cast her weeds away;

Lo! where yonder Don Saavedra
And to the palmy shore she hied,

Through their squadrons slow retires; All in her best array.

Proud Seville his native city,

Proud Seville his worth admires.
In sea-green silk so neatly clad
She there impatient stood ;

Close behind, a renegado
The crew with wonder saw the lad

Loudly shouts, with taunting cry: Repel the foaming flood.

Yield thee, yield thee, Don Saavedra ! Her hands a handkerchief display'd,

Dost thou from the baule Ay? Which he at parting gave;

Well I know thee, haughty Christian, Well pleas’d the token he survey'd,

Long I liv'd beneath thy roof; And manlier beat the wave.

Oft I've in the lists of glory Her fair companions one and all

Seen thee win the prize of proof. Rejoicing crowd the strand;

Well I know thy aged parents, For now her lover swam in call,

Well thy blooming bride I know ; And almost touch'd the land.

Seven years I was thy captive,

Seven Then through the white surf did she haste,

years of pain and woe. To clasp her lovely swain;

May our Prophet grant my wishes, When, ah! a shark bit through his waist:

Haughty chief, thou shalt be mine: His heart's blood dyed the main;

Thou shalt drink that cup of sorrow He shriek d ! his half sprang from the wave, Which I drank when I was thine, Streaming with purple gore;

Like a lion turns the warrior, And soon it found a living grave,

Back he sends an angry glare: And, ah! was seen no more.

Whizzing came the Moorish javelin, Now haste, now haste, ye maids, I pray, Vainly whizzing through the air. Fetch water from the spring :

Back the hero full of fury
She falls, she swoons, she dies away,
And soon her knell they ring.

Sent a deep and mortal wound:

Instant sunk'the renegado
Now each May-morning round her tomb, Mute and lifeless on the ground.
Ye fair, fresh flowrets strew;

With a thousand Moors surrounded, So may your lovers scape his doom,

Brare Saavedra stands at bay: Her hielpless fate scape you !

Wearied out, but nerer daunted,

Cold at length the warrior lay.

Near him fighting, great Alonzo § 13. Song. Gentle river, gentle river : trans

Percy. lated from the Spanish.

Stout resists the paynim bands ;

From his slaughter'd steed dismounted, Although the English are remarkable for the number Firm intrench'd behind him stands.

and variety of their ancient ballads, and retain perhaps Furious press the hostile squadron,
a greater fondness for these old simple rhapsodies of
their ancestois than most other navjons, they are not

Furious he repels their rage. the only people who have distinguished ihemselves by Loss of blood at length enfeebles : compositions of this kind. The Spaniards have great Who can war with thousands wage? multitudes of them, inany of which are of the highest where yon rock the plain o'ershadows, merit. They call them in their language Romances. Most of them relate to their conflicts with the Moors,

Close beneath its foot retird, and display a spirit of gallantry peculiar to that ro- Fainting sunk the bleeding hero, mantic people. The two following are specimens. And without a groan expir'd.

a

a

$ 114. Alcanzor and Zaida, a Moorish Tale: / Well thou know'st how dear I lov'd thee,

imitated from the Spanish. Percy. Spite of all their hateful pride, Softly blow the evening breezes,

Though I fear'd my haughty father Softly fall the dews of night;

Ne'er would let me be thy bride. Yonder walks the Moor Alcanzor,

Well thou know'st what cruel chidings Shunning ev'ry glare of light.

Oft I've from my mother borne, In yon palace lives fair Zaida,

What I've suffer'd here to meet thee Whom he loves with flame so pure :

Still at eve and early niorn. Loveliest she of Moorish ladies,

I no longer may resist them; He a young and noble Moor.

All to force my hand combine ; Waiting for th' appointed minute,

And to-morrow to thy rival Oft he paces to and fro:

This weak frame I'must resign. Stopping now, now moving forwards,

Yet think not thy faithful Zaida Sometimes quick, and sometimes slow. Can survive so great a wrong; Hope and fear alternate tease him,

Well my breaking heart assures me Oft he sighs with heartfelt care.

That my woes will not be long. See, fond youth, to yonder window

Farewell then, my dear Alcanzor ! Softly steps the tim'rous fair.

Farewell too my life with thee! Lovely seems the moon's fair lustre

Take this scarf, a parting token; To the lost benighted swain,

When thou wear'st it, think on me. When all silvery bright she rises,

Soon, lov'd youth, some worthier maiden Gilding mountain, grove, and plain.

Shall reward thy gen'rous truth; Lovely seems the sun's full glory

Sometimes tell her how thy Zaida
To the fainting seaman's eyes,

Died for thee in prime of youth.
When, some horrid storm dispersing,
O'er the wave his radiance Aies.

To him, all amaz’d, confounded,

Thus she did her woes impart; But a thousand times more lovely

Deep he sigh’d; then cried, o Zaida,
To her longing lover's sight,

Do not, do not break my heart !
Steals half-seen the beauteous maiden
Through the glimmerings of the night.

Canst thou think I thus will lose thee?

Canst thou hold my love so small ?
Tip-toe stands the anxious lover,
Whispering forth a gentle sigh;

No; a thousand times I'll perish!
Alla * keep thee, lovely lady!

My curst rival too shall fall. Tell me, am I doom'd to die?

Canst thou, wilt thou, yield thus to them? Is it true, the dreadful story

O break forth, and fly to me! Which thy damsel tells my page,

This fond heart shall bleed to save thee,

These fond arms shall shelter thee.
That, seduc'd by sordid riches,
Thou wilt sell thy bloom to age ?

'Tis in vain, in vain, Alcanzor; An old lord from Antiquera

Spies surround me, bars secure: Thy stern father brings along;

Scarce I steal this last dear moment, But canst thou, inconstant Zaida,

While

my damsel keeps the door. Thus consent my love to wrong?

Hark, I hear my father storming! If 'tis true, now plainly tell me,

Hark, I hear my mother chide! Nor thus trifle with my woes ;

I must go; farewell for ever!
Hide not then from me the secret

Gracious Alla be thy guide !
Which the world so clearly knows.
Deeply sigh'd the conscious maiden,

While the pearly tears descend;
Ah! my lord, too true the story;

$ 115. King Edward IV. and the Tanner of

Tamworth.
Here our tender loves must end,
Our fond friendship is discover'd,

In summer time when leaves grow greene, Well are known our mutual vows;

And blossoms bedecke the tree, All my friends are full of fury;

King Edward wolde a hunting ryde, Storms of passion shake the house.

Somme pastime for to see. Threats, reproaches, fears, surround me; With hawke and hounde he made him bowne, My stern father breaks my heart ;

With horne, and eke with bowe; Alla knows how dear it costs me,

To Drayton Basset he took his

waye, Gen'rous youth, from thee to part.

With all his lordes arowe.
Ancient wounds of hostile fury

And he had ridden ore dale and downe
Long have rent our house and thine ; By eight o'clocke in the day,
Why then did thy shining merit

When he was ware of a bold tanner,
Win this tender heart of mine?

Come ryding along the waye. * Alla is the Mahometan name of God.

a