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A fayre russet coat the tanner had on Marrye, heaven forfend, the tanner replyde, Fast buttoned under his chin;
That thou my prentise were: And under him a good cow-hide,
Thou woldstspend more good than I shold winn, And a mare of four shilling,
By fortye shilling a yere. Nowe stand you still, my good lordes all,
Yet one thinge wold I, sayd our king, Under the greene wood spraye,
If thou wilt not seeme strange ; And I will wende to yonder fellowe,
Thoughe my horse be better than thy mare, To weet what he will saye.
Yet with thee I faine wold change. God speede, God speede thee, said our king. Why if with me thou faine wilt change, Thou art welcome, sir, sayde hee.
As change full well maye wee, The readyest waye to Drayton Basset
By the faith of my bodye, thou proude fellowe, I praye thee to shewe tó mee.
I will have some boot of thee.
I sweare, so mote I thee:
And that thou well mayst see.
And softly she will fare:
Thy horse is unrulye and wild, I wiss; And I pray thee wend with mee.
Aye skipping here and theare.
Now tell me in this stounde.
But a noble in gold so rounde.
Here's twenty groates of white moneyè, No daynties we will spare :
Sith thou wilt have it of mee. All daye shalt thou eate and drink of the best,
I would have sworne now, quoth the tanner, And I will paye thy fare.
Thou hadst not had one penniè.
But since we two have made a change,
A change we must abide ;
Although thou hast gotten Brocke my mare, Than thou hast pence in thine.
Thou gettest not my cowe-hide.
I will not have it, sayde the kynge,
I sweare, sò mote I thee;
Thy foule cowe-hide I would not beare,
If thou woldst give it mee.
The tanner he took his good cowe-hide,
That of the cowe was hilt; Might beseeme a lord to weare.
And threwe it upon the king's saddèlle,
That was so fayrely gilte.
Now help me up, thou fine fellowe,
'Tis time that I were gone : And standeth in midds of thy goode.
When I come home to Gyllian iny wife,
She'll say I'm a gentilmon.
The kinge he took him by the legge;
The tanner a f*** let fall. But that cow-hides are deare.
Now marrye, good fellowe, said the kinge, Cowe-hides ! cowe-hides ! what things are
Thy courtesye is bat small. those ?
When the tanner he was in the king's saddèlle, I marvell what they bee?
And his foote in the stirrup was, What, art thou a foole? the tanner reply'd ;
He marvelled greatlye in his minde, I carry one under mee.
Whether it were golde or brass. What craftsman art thou? said the king;
But when his steede saw the cows-taile wagge, I pray thee tell me trowe.
And eke the black cowe-horne, I am a barker*, sir, by trade ;
He stamped, and stared, and awaye he ranne, Now tell me what art thou?
As the devill had him borne. I am a poore courtier, sir, quoth he, The tanner he pulld, the tanner he sweat, That'am forth of service worne;
And held by the pummil fast; And fain I wolde thy prentise bee,
At length the tanner came tumbling downe: Thy cunninge for to learne,
His necke he had well-nye brast. # Dealer in bark.
Take thy horse again with a vengeance, he sayd, Balow, my boy, thy mithers joy,
Thy father breides me great annoy:
It grieves me sair to see thee weipe. Yet if againe thou faine woldst change, When he began to court my luve, As change full well may wee,
And with his sugred words to muve, By the faith of thy bodye, thou jolly tanner, His faynings fals, and flattering cheire, I will have some boote of thee.
To me that time did not appeire : What boote wilt thou have, the tanner reply'd, But now I see, most crueli hee Nowe tell me in this stounde?
Cares neither for my babe nor mee. Noe pence, nor half-pence, sir, by my faye,
Balow, &c. But I will have twentye pounde.
Ly stil, my darlinge, sleipe a while, Here's twenty groates out of my purse;
And when thou wakest sweitly smile : And twentye I have of thine:
But smile not, as thy father did, And I have one more, which we will spend To cozen maids; nay, God forbid ! Together at the Vine.
But yette I feire, thou wilt gae neire, The kinge set a bugle horne to his mouthe,
Thy fatheris hart and face to beire. And blewe bothe loude and shrille;
Balow, &c. And soone came lords, and soone came knights, I cannae chuse, but ever will Fast ryding over the hille.
Be luving to thy father stil: Nowe, out alas! the tanner he cryde,
Whair-eir he gae, whair-eir he ryde, That ever I sawe this daye!
My love with himn maun still abyde; Thou art a strong thefe, yon come thy fellowes In weil or wae, whair-eir he gae, Will beare my cowe-hide away.
Mine hart can neir depart him frae.
Balow, &e. They are no thieves, the king replyde, I sweare, so mote I thee:
But doe not, doe not, prettie mine, Bat they are the lords of the north countrèy,
To faynings fals thine hart incline : Here come to hunt with mee.
Be loyal to thy luver trew,
And nevir change hir for a new :
If gude or faire, of hir have care,
For womens banning's wonderous sair.
Bolow, &c. He had lever than twentye pounde.
Bairne, sin thy cruel father is gane, A coller, a coller, here, sayd the kinge,
Thy winsome smiles maun eise my paine : A coller, he loud did crye.
My babe and I'll together live,
My babe and I right saft will ly,
Balow, &c. After a coller comes a halter,
Fareweil, fareweil, thou falsest youth, And I shall be hanged to-morrowe.
That ever kist a woman's mouth! Away with thy feare, thou jolly tanner; I wish all maids be warn'd by mee,
For the sport thou hast shewn to mee, Nevir to trust man's curtesy I wote noe halter thou shalt weare,
For if we doe bot chance to bow, But thou shalt have a knight's fee.
They'lle use us than they care not how. For Plumpton parke I will give thee,
Balow, my babe, ly stil and sleipe ! With tenements faire beside,
It grieves ine sair to see thee weipe. "Tis worth three hundred markes by the yeare,
§ 117. Corydon's doleful Knell. To maintain thy good cowe-hide.
The burthen of the song, Ding, Dong, &c. is at preGramercye, my liege, the tanner replyde, sent appropriated to burlesque subjects, and there
For the favour thou hast me showne; fore may excite only ludicrous ideas in a modern If ever thou comest to merry Tamworth, reader, but in the time of our poet it usually acNeates leather shall clout thy shoen.
companied the most solemn and mournful strains,
My Phillida, adieu, love ! $116. Lady Ann Bothwell's Lament. A For evermore farewell ! Scottish Song
Ay me! I've lost my true love, The subject of this pathetic ballad is, A lady of quality,
And thus I ring her knell. of the name of BOTHWELL, or rather BoSWELL,
Ding dong, ding dong, ding dong, baving been, together with her child, deserted by
My Phillida is dead? her husband, or lover, composed these affecting
I'll stick a branch of willow lines herself.
At my fair Phillis' head. Balow, iny babe, ly stil and sleipe!
For my fair Phillida It grieves me sair to see thee weipe;
Our bridal bed was made : If thoust be silent, Ise be glad,
But 'stead of silkes so gay, Tby maining waks my heart ful sad.
She in her shroud is laid. Ding, &c.
Her corpse shall be attended
With an old ball, hung about with pikes, guns, By maides in faire array,
and bows, Till th' obsequies are ended,
With old swords, and bucklers, that had borne And she is wrapt in clay. Ding, &c. many shrewde blows, Her herse it shall be carried
And an old frize coat, to cover bis worship's By youths that do excel;
trunk hose, And when ihat she is buried,
And a cup of old sherry to comfort his copper I thus will ring her knell. Ding, &c.
Like an old courtier, &c. (nose, A garland shall be framed
With a good old fashion, when Christmasse By art and nature's skill,
was come, Of sundry-colour'd flowers,
To call in all his old neighbours with bagpipe In token of good-will*;
With good cheer enough to furnish every old And sundry-colour'd ribbands
And old liquor able to make a cat speak, and On it I will bestow;
man dumb; But chiefly blacke aud yellowe
Like an old courtier, &c. With her to grave shall go.
With an old falconer, huntsman, and a kennel I'll deck her tomb with flowers,
of hounds, The rarest ever seen ;
That never hawked nor hunted but in his own And with my tears, as showers,
grounds, I'll keepe them fresh and green. Ding, &c. Who, like a wise man, kept himself within Instead of fairest colours,
his own bounds, Set forth with curious artt,
And when he dyed gave every child a thousand Her image shall be painted
good pounds; On my distressed 'heart.
Like an old courtier, &c. And thereon shall be graven
But to his eldest son his house and land be as. Her epitaph so faire,
Stifull mind, “ Here lies the loveliest maiden
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 neighIn sable will I mourne;
bours be kind : Blacke shall be all my weede :
But in the ensuing ditty you shall hear how he Ay me! I am forlorne,
was inclind, Now Phillida is dead.
Like a young courtier of the king's,
And the king's young courtier. $ 118. The old and young Courtier.
Like a flourishing young gallant, newly come
to his land, The subject of this excellent old song is a comparison who keeps a brace of painted madams at his
between the manners of the old gentry as still subsisting in the times of Elizabeth, and the modern and takes up a thousand pound upon his fa
command, refinements affected by their sons in the reigns of
ther's land, her successors.
And gets drunk in a tavern, till he can neither An old song made by an aged old pate,
go nor stand! Of an old worshipful gentleman who had a
Like a young courtier, &c.
Like an old courtier of the queen's,
house-keeping, or care ; With an old ladywhose anger one word asswages;
Who buys gaudy-colour'd fans to play with They every quarter paid their old servants their and seven or eight different dressings of other
wanton air, wages,
women's hair ; And never knew what belonged to coachman, footmen, nor pages,
Like a young courtier, &c. But kept twenty old fellows with blue coats and with a new-fashion'd hall, built where the Like an old courtier, &c.
old one stood, With an old study 6 Il'd full of learned old books, Hung round with new pictures that do the With an old reverend chaplain, you might
poor no good, know him by his looks,
With a fine marble chimney, wherein burns With an old buttery-hatch worn quite off the neither coal nor wood, hooks,
[zen old cooks; And a new smooth shovelboard, whereon no And an old kitchen that maintain'd half a do- victuals e'er stood; Like an old courtier, &c.
Like a young courtier, &c. • 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 The cynic loves his poverty ; plays,
(prays, The pelican her wilderness; And a new chaplain, that swears faster than he And 'tis the Indian's pride to be With a new buitery-hatch that opens once in Naked on frozen Caucasus : four or five days,
Contentment cannot smart; Stoics, we see; And a new French cook to devise fine kick- Make torments easie to their apathy.
shaws and toys;
These manicles upon my arm
I as my mistress' favours wear; With a new fashion, when Christmas is draw
And, for to keep my ancles warm, ing on,
I have some iron shackles there : On a new journey to London straight we all These walls are but my garrison; this cell, must be gone,
Which men call jail, doth prove my citadel: And leave none to keep house, but our new porter John,
I'm in the cabinet lock’d up,
Or, like the great mogul or pope,
Am cloyster'd up from public sight: With a new gentleman-usher, whose carriage And thus, proud Sultan, I'm as great as thee:
Retiredness is a piece of majesty, is complete, With a new coachman, footmen, and pages to Here sin for want of food must starve, carry up the meat,
Where tempting objects are not seen; With a waiting gentlewoman, whose dressing
And these strong walls do only serve is very neat, Who, when her lady has din’d, lets the ser- Malice of late's grown charitable, sure;
To keep vice out, and keep me in:
I'm not committed, but am kept secure.
So he that struck at Jason's life,
Thinking t' have made his purpose sure, For which sundry of his ancestors' old manors
By a malicious friendly knife, are sold ;
Did only wound him to a cure.
When once my prince affliction hath,
Prosperity doth treason seemn;
And to make smooth so rough a path,
I can learn patience from him : $ 119. Loyaliy confined.
Now not to suffer, shows no loyal heart; This excellent old song is preserved in David Lloyd's Whenkings want ease, subjects must bear a part. * Memoires of those that suffered in the cause of
What though I cannot see my king, Charles I.” He speaks of it as the composition of
Neither in person or in coin; a worthy personage, who suffered deeply in those times, and was still living, with no other reward Yet contemplation is a thing than the conscience of having suffered. The au- That renders what I have not mine : thor's name he has not mentioned; but, if tradition My king from me what adamant can part, may be credited, this song was written by Sir R. Whom I do wear engraven on my heart! L'ESTRANGE. Beat on, proud billows ; Boreas, blow; llave you not seen the nightingale,
A prisoner like, coopt in a cage;
Ilow doth she chant her wonted tale
In that her narrow hermitage !
Even then her charming melody doth prove calm ;
That all lier bars are trees, hier cage a grove. Then strike, A Miction, for thy wounds are balm.
I am that bird, whom they combine • That which the world miscalls a jail,
Thus to deprive of liberty; A private closet is to me:
But though they do my corps confine, Whilst a good conscience is my bail,
Yet, maugre hate, my soul is free: And innocence my liberty ;
And though immur'd, yet can I chirp, and sing Locks, bars, and solitude, together met, Disgrace to rebels, glory to my king! Make me no prisoner, but an anchorei. I, whilst I wish'd to be retir'd,
My soul is free as ambient air, Into this private room was turn'd,
Although my baser part's immew'd, As if their wisdoms had conspir'd
Whilst loyal thoughts do still repair
T accompany my solitude:
$ 120. To Althea from Prison. B. Why does she weep, thy bonny bonny bride? This excellent Sonnet, which possessed a high degree
Why does she weep, thy winsome marrow? of fame among the old Cavaliers, was written by
And why dare ye nae mair
weil be seen Colonel Richard Lovelace during his confinement
Puing the birks on the Braes of Yarrow? in the Gate-house, Westminster; to which he was A. Lang maun she weep, lang maun she, måun 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,
Lang maun she weep with dule and sorrow; and to settle the government. See Wood's Athenæ, And lang maun I nae mair weil be seen vol. ii. p. 228; where may be seen at large the af- Puing the birks on the Braes of Yarrow : fecting story of this elegant writer; who, after having
For she has tint her luver, luver dear, been distinguished for every gallant and polite accomplishment, the pattern of his own sex, and the
Her luver dear, the cause of sorrow; darling of the ladies, died in the lowest wretchedness,
And I hae slain the combiest swain obscurity, and want, in 1658.
That eir pu'd birks on the Braes of Yarrow, When love with unconfined wings
Why rins thy stream, O Yarrow, Yarrow reid? Hovers within my gates,
Why on thy braes heard the voice of sorrow! And my divine Althea brings
And why yon melancholious weids To whisper at my grates;
Hung on the bonny birks of Yarrow? When I lye tangled in her haire,
What's yonder floats on the rueful, ruefal And feiter'd with her eye,
Aude? The birds that wanton in the aire
What's yonder floats? Odule and sorrow! Know no such libertie.
O'tis he, the comely swain I slew When Aowing cups run swiftly round
Upon the duleful Braes of Yarrow! With no allaying Thames,
Wash, O wash his wounds, his wounds in Our carelesse heads with roses crown'd,
tears, Our hearts with loyal fames;
His wounds in tears, with dule and sorrow; When thirsty griefe in wine we steepe, And wrap his limbs in mourning weids, When healths and drafts goe free,
And lay him on the Braes of Yarrow! Fishes that tipple in the deepe,
Then build, then build, ye sisters, sisters sad, Know no such libertie.
Ye sisters sad, his tomb with sorrow; When, linnet-like, confined I
weep. around in waeful wise With shriller note shall sing
His hapless fate on the Braes of Yarrow. The mercye, sweetness, inajestye, And glories, of my king;
Curse ye, curse ye, his useless, useless shield, When I shall voyce aloud how good
My arm that wrought the deed of sorrow,
The fatal spear that pierc'd his breast, He is, how great should be,
His comely breast on the Braes of Yarrow. Th' enlarged windes that curle the flood Know no such libertie.
Did I not warn thee, not to, not to luve?
And warn from fight? but, to my sorrow, Stone walls do not a prison make, Nor iron barres a cage;
Too rashly bauld, a stronger arm
Thou mett'st, and fell'st on the Braes of Minds innocent and quiet take
Sweet smells the birk, green grows, greet And in my soul am free,
grows the grass, Angels alone, that soare above,
Yellow on Yarrow's banks the gowan, Enjoy such libertie.
Fair hangs the apple frae the rock,
Sweet the wave of Yarrow flowan.
Flows Yarrow sweet? as sweet, as sweet § 121. The Braes of Yarrow, in Imitation of the ancient Scots Manner,
As green its grass, its gowan as yellow; Was written by William Hamilton of Bangour, As sweet smells on its braes the bírk,
Esq. who died March 25, 1754, aged 50. The apple frae its rock as mellow. A. Busk ye, busk ye, my bonny bonny bride, Fair was thy luve, fair, fair indeed thy lure,
busk ye, my winsome inarrow, In Aow'ry bands thou didst him fetter ; Busk ye, busk ye, my bonny bonny bride, Though he was fair, and well beluv'd again,
And think nomairon the Braes of Yarrow. Than me he never lov'd thee better. B. Where gat ye that bonny bonny bride? Busk ye, then busk, my bonny bonny bride,
Where gat ye that winsome marrow? Busk.ye, busk ye, my winsome marrow, A. I gat her where I dare na weil be seen, Busk ye, and luve me on the banks of Tweed,
Puing the birks on the Braes of Yarrow. And think nae mairon the Braes of Yarrow, Weep not, werp not, iny bonny bonny bride! B. How can I busk a bonny bonny bride?
Weepnot, weep not, my winsome marrow! How can I busk a winsome marrow? Nor let thy heart lainent to leive
How luve him upon the banks of Tweed, Puing the birks on the Braes of Yarrow.
That slew my love on the Braes of Yarros?