A fayre russet coat the tanner had on Nowe stand you still, my good lordes all, God speede, God speede thee, said our king. Fro the place where thou dost stand, That is an unready waye, sayd the king, All daye have I ridden on Brocke my mare, Go with me downe to Drayton Basset, All daye shalt thou eate and drink of the best, Gramercye for nothing, the tanner replyde, I trow I've more nobles in my purse, God give thee joy of them, sayd the king, For he weende he had beene a thiefe. What art thou, he sayde, thou fine fellowe? Of thee I'm in greate feare; I never stole them, quoth our king, I hear no tydings, sir, by the masse, I marvell what they bee? What, art thou a foole? the tanner reply'd; What craftsman art thou? said the king; I am a poore courtier, sir, quoth he, Marrye, heaven forfend, the tanner replyde, Yet one thinge wold I, sayd our king, Why if with me thou faine wilt change, By the faith of my bodye, thou proude fellowe, That were against reason, sayd the king, Yea, sir, but Brocke is gentle and mild, Thy horse is unrulye and wild, I wiss; What boote wilt thou have? our king replied Noe pence, nor half-pence, by my faye, I would have sworne now, quoth the tannèr, But since we two have made a change, I will not have it, sayde the kynge, Thy foule cowe-hide I would not beare, The tanner he took his good cowe-hide, Now help me up, thou fine fellowe, The kinge he took him by the legge; Now marrye, good fellowe, said the kinge, When the tanner he was in the king's saddèlle, Whether it were golde or brass. But when his steede saw the cows-taile wagge, And eke the black cowe-horne, He stamped, and stared, and awaye he ranne, The tanner he pull'd, the tanner he sweat, At length the tanner came tumbling downe: * Dealer in bark. Take thy horse again with a vengeance, he sayd, | Balow, my boy, thy mithers joy, With mee he shall not byde. My horse would have borne thee well enoughe, By the faith of thy bodye, thou jolly tanner, The kinge set a bugle horne to his mouthe, Nowe, out alas! the tanner he cryde, That ever I sawe this daye! But they are the lords of the north countrèy, And soone before our king they came, And knelt downe on the grounde: Then woulde he lever than twentye pounde A coller, a coller, the tanner he sayd, And I shall be hanged to-morrowe. "Tis worth three hundred markes by the yeare, § 116. Lady Ann Bothwell's Lament. A The subject of this pathetic ballad is, A lady of quality, of the name of BOTHWELL, or rather BoSWELL, having been, together with her child, deserted by her husband, or lover, composed these affecting lines herself. BALOW, my babe, ly stil and sleipe! Thy father breides me great annoy. Balow, my babe, ly stil and sleipe! Balow, &c. But doe not, doe not, prettie mine, And nevir change hir for a new: Balow, &c. Fareweil, fareweil, thou falsest youth, That ever kist a woman's mouth! I wish all maids be warn'd by mee, Nevir to trust man's curtesy ; For if we doe bot chance to bow, They'lle use us than they care not how. Balow, my babe, ly stil and sleipe! It grieves ine sair to see thee weipe. § 117. Corydon's doleful Knell. The burthen of the song, DING, DONG, &c. is at present appropriated to burlesque subjects, and therefore may excite only ludicrous ideas in a modern reader, but in the time of our poet it usually accompanied the most solemn and mournful strains. My Phillida, adieu, love! For evermore farewell! Ding dong, ding dong, ding dong, Our bridal bed was made: She in her shroud is laid. Ding, &c. And with my tears, as showers, That never hawked nor hunted but in his own grounds, I'll keepe them fresh and green. Ding, &c. Who, like a wise man, kept himself within Instead of fairest colours, Set forth with curious art†, Her image shall be painted On my distressed heart. Ding, &c his own bounds, Like an old courtier, &c. But to his eldest son his house and land he as sign'd, [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 Ding, &c. $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, That kept a brave old house at a bountiful rate, wages, And never knew what belonged to coachman, footmen, nor pages, [badges; 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 hooks, [zen old cooks; And an old kitchen that maintain'd half a doLike an old courtier, &c. bours be kind: But in the ensuing ditty you shall hear how he was inclin'd, Like a young courtier of the king's, And the king's young courtier. Like a flourishing young gallant, newly come to his land, Who keeps a brace of painted madams at his command, And takes up a thousand pound upon his father's land, And gets drunk in a tavern, till he can neither go nor stand! Like a young courtier, &c. With a new-fangled lady, that is dainty, nice, Who never knew what belonged to good and spare, house-keeping, or care; Who buys gaudy-colour'd fans to play with And seven or eight different dressings of other wanton air, women's hair; Like a young courtier, &c. With a new-fashion'd hall, built where the old one stood, Hung round with new pictures that do the poor no good, With a fine marble chimney, wherein burns neither coal nor wood, And a new smooth shovelboard, whereon no victuals e'er stood; 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 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 cat ; 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 Among the young courtiers of the king, $119. Loyally confined. This excellent old song is preserved in David Lloyd's "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 billews; 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 balın. That which the world miscalls a jail, Into this private room was turn'd, The cynic loves his poverty; The pelican her wilderness; Naked on frozen Caucasus : 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: Where tempting objects are not seen; To keep vice out, and keep me in: 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: Neither in person or in coin; That renders what I have not mine: Have you not seen the nightingale, A prisoner like, coopt in a cage; In that her narrow hermitage! I am that bird, whom they combine And though immur'd, yet can I chirp, and sing My soul is free as ambient air, Although rebellion do my body binde, 994 § 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 When flowing cups run swiftly round Th' enlarged windes that curle the flood Stone walls do not a prison make, Minds innocent and quiet take That for an hermitage: If I have freedom in my love, § 121. The Braes of Yarrow, in Imitation of the ancient Scots Manner. Was written by William Hamilton of Bangour, Paing the birks on the Braes of Yarrow. Puing the birks on the Braes of Yarrow. B. Why does she weep, thy bonny bonny bride? Why does she weep, thy winsome marrow? And why dare ye nae mair weil be seen Puing the birks on the Braes of Yarrow? Lang maun she weep, lang maun she, maun she weep, A. 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, OYarrow, 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, ruefal 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, Thou mett'st, and fell'st on the Braes of Sweet smells the birk, green grows, green Yellow on Yarrow's banks the gowan, As green its grass, its gowan as yellow; 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 busk ye, ye, my winsome marrow, Busk ye, and luve me on the banks of Tweed, And think nae mairon 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 luve on the Braes of Yarrow? |