knowledge, procured at the expence of so many years' close study and application to business: for you must know, my HEAD MASTER, a great projector, has taken it into his head to level the church-yard; and by digging and throwing about his clay there, and defacing the stones, makes such confusion among the dead, and will so puzzle me, if he goes on, that no man living will be able to find where to lay them properly, and then he may dig the graves himself; for I foresee, I shall get the ill-will of the parish about it: for even the poor love to bury with their kindred and all's but right that they should. I should be glad, therefore, to know the sense of the public, whether any body has a just right, or needful call to dig in the church-yard, besides : "FULLFORD, the Grave-digger. "P. S. As I intend dropping the business of Gravedigger, now rendered so very troublesome, I propose renting my old spot of ground (the church-yard) when the green turf is all removed, and, for decency's sake, will prevent the naked appearance of it, by planting potatoes, raising some fine beds of onions, &c. as the mould is fat and good.-And I see no reason why I may not get a profitable job out of the church, as well as my GREAT MASTER,-as I find that's the game now-a-days, tho' decency, convenience, or the like, be the pretence." This course of research might be successfully pursued, but enough has been done to point out a valuable source of reference to the future editor of the works of Chatterton. T. FROM CHATTERTON'S POEMS. "THE MYNSTRELLES SONGE, IN ÆLLA. "O! synge unto mie roundelaie, O droppe the brynie teare wythe mee, Lycke a reynyngei ryver bee; Mie love ys dedde, Gon to hys deathe-bedde, Al under the wyllowe tree. Blacke his crynej as the wyntere nighte, Gon to hys deathe-bedde, Al under the wyllowe tree. Swotem hys tyngue as the throstles note, Quycke ynn daunce as thoughte canne bee, Deften hys taboure, codgelle stote, O! hee lyes bie the wyllowe tree : Mie love is dedde, Gonne to hys deathe-bedde, Alle underre the wyllowe tree. i Reynynge, running. Cryne, hair. k Rodde, complexion. Cale, cold. m Swote, sweet. n Defte, neat. Harke! the ravenne flappes hys wynge, In the briered delle belowe; Harke! the dethe-owle loude dothe synge, Gonne to hys deathe-bedde, Al under the wyllowe tree. See! the whyte moone sheenes onne hie; Gon to hys deathe-bedde, Al under the wyllowe tree. Heere, uponne mie true loves grave, Mie love ys dedde, Gonne to hys deathe-bedde, Alle under the wyllowe tree. Wythe mie hondes I'lle dented the brieres Rounde his hallie corse to gre,r Ouphantes fairie, lyghte youre fyres, Heere mie boddie stylle schalle bee. Gon to hys deathe-bedde, Al under the wyllowe tree. Comme, wythe acorne-coppe and thorne, Drayne mie hartys blodde awaie; Lyfe and all yttes goode I scorne, Daunce bie nete,t or feaste by daie. Gon to hys deathe-bedde, Al under the wyllowe tree. Waterre wytches, crownede wythe reytes,u I die; I comme; mie true love waytes: "ELEGY, TO THE MEMORY OF MR. THOMAS PHILLIPS, OF FAIRFORD. "No more I hail the morning's golden gleam; Now as I wander thro' this leafless grove, Phillips, great master of the boundless lyre, Give me a double portion of thy fire, Or all the pow'rs of language are too faint. Nete, nighte. u Reytes, waterflags. ▾ Leathalle, deadly. Say what bold number, what immortal line O, lend my pen what animated thine, To shew thee in thy native glories deckt. The joyous charms of Spring delighted saw So rose the regal hyacinthal star; So shone the pleasant rustic daisied bed; ; Majestic Summer's blooming flow'ry pride When golden Autumn, wreath'd in ripen'd corn, Pale rugged Winter bending o'er his tread, His train, a motley'd, sanguine, sable cloud, He limps along the russet dreary moor; Whilst rising whirlwinds, blasting, keen, and loud, Roll the white surges to the sounding shore. |