"Alas! she hath no cause of languish But Tereus' love, on her by strong hand wroten ; Cannot have to content me, Have more cause to lament me, Since wanting is more wo than too much having. Here, then, terminate our extracts from a volume which, nearly up to the year 1700, was considered the chief collection of the day, and which had at last become so rare, that a copy at George Stevens's sale produced eleven pounds fifteen shillings. It has since then been reprinted; but only a small edition, we believe, was struck off, and its price would prevent it from falling into many hands. The quotations which we have made are but little known; very few of them will be found in any collection of poetry which has yet appeared such pieces as have before been quoted, we have (saving in one or two instances) entirely avoided. We considered it unnecessary to follow up our extracts with remarks, after the manner in which we treated the poetry of William Browne; as these pieces were more detached, and in most instances more imaginary, while in the other there were many descriptions of nature which we felt ourselves bound to point out and dwell upon, as most of the works to which our humble name is prefixed, profess to treat upon rural scenery and rural subjects. 375 THE YOUNG OUTLAW. When shaws been sheene, and shruddes full fayre, And leaves both large and longe, It's merry walking in the fayre forest, To heare the small birds' songe. The woodweele sange, and wold not cease, Soe lowde, he wakened Robin Hood, In the greenwood where he laye. OLD BALLAD. ONE of my youthful playmates, whose brains were half turned by reading romances and old ballad lore, came to the resolution of leading the life of an outlaw, and living in the greenwood like Robin Hood. From a child he prided himself on his archery, and spent every halfpenny he could "rap and ring" together in purchasing catgut for his bows and iron heads for his arrows; and when he could muster no money, he would betake himself to the blacksmith's, and hammer out old nails to the best shape he could to point his shafts. Not a sparrow could alight within reach of his woodland weapon but an arrow was launched at him; and although he was never known in all his life to hit one, yet it must be confessed that he sometimes came 66 very near." One old game-cock, which had strutted for years in his father's farm-yard, was so accustomed to our hero's shafts, that he fairly set him at defiance, and would peck about within half a score yards of our archer, and only just lift up his legs now and then, as if cock-sure that he should never be hit. Sometimes, too, this courageous chanticleer would give a most provoking crow at the youth's departure; when, very un-Robin Hood-like, the irritated archer would return and assail him with a volley of stones. A proud day was that for the youth when, after about twenty shots, he struck the head of the old sow; and although she continued rooting up the earth as if unconscious of the blow, yet it was a great feat to know that the arrow hit her ;—that very night, too, he lodged a shaft in the gate-post, while standing at least a distance of eight yards. The next day he dragged the green baize cloth from off his mother's dining-table, bringing down, by the sudden jerk, the huge tea-caddy, and scattering the six-shilling hyson upon the floor; this he replaced as he best could, with no small addition of sand, with which the stonepavement was plentifully besprinkled. He threw the mantle over his shoulder, and hastened to show his companion Bob this new cloak of Lincoln green. Bob was a shrewd boy; and believing his old playmate to be half cracked, had consented to play the part of Sancho to our Don, and join him in his woodland life as a second Little John. Our young enthusiast now began to make all necessary preparations; he plundered his father's plantations of the young ashes for bows, and spent hours in the manufacturing of arrows, and was a constant attendant at the forge, much to the annoyance of the old blacksmith, who, however, after listening to his accounts of the exploits he boasted of achieving, only replied, "Thou'rt daft, Jacky-mad as a March hare." But Jacky continued to read the Garland, and to brood over the exploits of the bold outlaw, in spite of the cold hopes held out by the man of iron and the dry arguments of Bob. His dreams were now of fallow-deer bounding through green glades, and the loud laughter of "merry men" resting under some old oak tree. The sound of bugle horns rung upon his slumbers; he shot sheriffs in his sleep, and rescued his followers even at the foot of the "gallows-tree." In a word, there was nothing of which he read that he did not think himself able to achieve. He arose one morning and hastened to meet Bob: he was determined to linger no longer. He found his companion weeding in a neighbouring field; and, throwing himself down on a grassy hillock, began, "in a strain worthy of a hero of romance." "Bob," said he, "I take my departure to-morrow; my home in future shall be the wide woods, and my food the beasts of the chase. If thou wilt follow my fortunes, speak; if not, stay behind and remain my father's slave.” "You had better get up," replied Bob; 66 or else you'll happen to catch a precious cold with lying on that wet grass. You should have brought your great-coat, and gotten used to it by degrees. I'll be bound Robin Hood didn't go into his hard way of living all at once; and I think we'd better stay till another summer." "The "It becomes not the hardy forester to shrink from the cold," replied our hero, slightly coughing. brave outlaws bore all weathers, and were as warm before their forest fire as the old baron in his hall. I shall soon kill deer enow to furnish us with skins to build a tent, and at least erect you a shelter. As for myself, I would not crave a better bed than the fallen leaves, when I am weary of the chase." "That's all very fine talking, my young measter," answered Bob, still pulling up the weeds; "but I've never seen many deer, and I believe that Robin Hood shot most of them in his day; and as to your killing plenty of game, you must have got a deal better aim since you shot at one of the sheep, and missed it nine times hand-running. And about standing cold, I can take my share of that any how; and if I go with you, we shall see who can stand the most. But I would advise you to wait till another summer; happen you'll be able to hit a sheep in less than nine shots before then." "Not another day," added the archer, springing up indignantly. "To-morrow night I sleep beneath some broad oak tree; Warton wood shall be my restingplace, and this good cloak of Lincoln green," added he, displaying the table-cloth," my covering." "Isn't there a barn or a hovel? or wouldn't it be better to steal a few sheaves of straw, to take with us ?” inquired the ever-cautious Bob. "If there's a barn, you know, we might as well get used to it by degrees, and lie a bit nearer the door every night, until we can stand the open air better. Besides, we shall want a pot to boil the turnips in that we thieve; and a tinderbox. You never see those gipsy chaps without a good big pot, and a frying-pan, and a few blankets; and some of those folks are 'nation hard, I can tell you-as hard as Robin Hood, or little John, or any of those fellows, ever were." "Thou art but an ignorant clod-hopper," replied the hero, indignantly, "to think of comparing the Outlaw of Sherwood Forest to a paltry race of thieves and fortune-tellers, when Robin Hood entertained kings. Were it in those days when there were no laws, I would draw my long bow and shoot thee through the ribs. But I pity thine ignorance, Bob," added he, with the scorn of a warrior; "thou hast never read Robin Hood's Garland." "Well, and if I never did read the book you talk of," replied Bob, sulkily, "I know those who are none the wiser for all their reading; but fancy they can shoot |