What can my barbarous barbarous father do,
But with his cruel rage pursue me?
My luver's blood is on thy spear
How canst thou, barbarous man, then woo me?
My happy sisters may be, may be proud
With cruel and ungentle scoffin',
May bid me seek on Yarrow Braes
My luver nailed in his coffin.
My brother Douglas may upbraid, upbraid,
And strive with threatning words to muve me:
My luver's blood is on thy spear
How canst thou ever bid me luve thee?
Yes, yes, prepare the bed, the bed of luve,
With bridal sheets my body cover,
Unbar, ye bridal maids, the door!
Let in the expected husband-lover.
But who the expected husband husband is?
His hands, methinks, are bath'd in slaughter.
Ah me! what ghastly spectre's yon
Comes, in his pale shroud, bleeding after?
Pale as he is, here lay him, lay him down,
O lay his cold head on my pillow!
Take aff, take aff these bridal weids,
And crown my careful head with willow.
Pale tho' thou art, yet best, yet best beluv'd,
O could my warmth to life restore thee!
Ye'd lye all night between my breasts—
No youth lay ever there before thee!
Pale, pale indeed, O luvely luvely youth,
Forgive, forgive so foul a slaughter,
And lye all night between my breists,
No youth shall ever lye there after.
A. Return, return, O mournful, mournful bride
Return and dry thy useless sorrow!
Thy luver heeds none of thy sighs,
He lyes a corpse on the Braes of Yarrow.
MY banks they are furnished with bees,
Whose murmur invites one to sleep;
My grottoes are shaded with trees,
And my hills are white over with sheep.
I seldom have met with a loss,
Such health do my fountains bestow;
My fountains all bordered with moss,
Where the harebells and violets blow.
Not a pine in the grove is there seen,
But with tendrils of woodbine is bound;
Not a beech's more beautiful green,
But a sweet-briar entwines it around.
Not my fields in the prime of the year,
More charms than my cattle unfold;
Not a brook that is limpid and clear,
But it glitters with fishes of gold.
I have found out a gift for my fair,
I have found where the wood-pigeons breed;
But let me such plunder forbear,
She will say 'twas a barbarous deed;
For he ne'er could be true, she averred,
Who would rob a poor bird of its young;
And I loved her the more when I heard
Such tenderness fall from her tongue.
JOHN GILPIN was a citizen
Of credit and renown,
A train-band captain eke was he
Of famous London town.
John Gilpin's spouse said to her dear:
'Though wedded we have been
These twice ten tedious years, yet we
No holiday have seen.
'To-morrow is our wedding-day,
And we will then repair
Unto the Bell at Edmonton
All in a chaise and pair.
'My sister, and my sister's child,
Myself and children three,
Will fill the chaise; so you must ride
On horseback after we.'
He soon replied: 'I do admire
Of womankind but one,
And you are she, my dearest dear;
Therefore, it shall be done.
'I am a linen-draper bold,
As all the world doth know,
And my good friend the calender
Will lend his horse to go.'
Quoth Mrs. Gilpin: 'That's well said;
And for that wine is dear,
We will be furnished with our own,
Which is both bright and clear.'
John Gilpin kissed his loving wife;
O'erjoyed was he to find
That, though on pleasure she was bent,
She had a frugal mind.
The morning came, the chaise was brought,
But yet was not allowed
To drive up to the door, lest all
Should say that she was proud.
So three doors off the chaise was stayed,
Where they did all get in;
Six precious souls, and all agog
To dash through thick and thin.
Smack went the whip, round went the wheels,
Were never folk so glad;
The stones did rattle underneath,
As if Cheapside were mad.
John Gilpin at his horse's side
Seized fast the flowing mane,
And up he got, in haste to ride,
But soon came down again;
For saddle-tree scarce reached had he,
His journey to begin,
When, turning round his head, he saw
Three customers come in.
So down he came; for loss of time,
Although it grieved him sore,
Yet loss of pence, full well he knew,
Would trouble him much more.
'Twas long before the customers
Were suited to their mind,
When Betty screaming came down stairs:
The wine is left behind!'
'Good lack!' quoth he—'et bring it me,
My leathern belt likewise,
In which I bear my trusty sword
When I do exercise.'
Now Mrs. Gilpin—careful soul!—
Had two stone-bottles found,
To hold the liquor that she loved,
And keep it safe and sound.
Each bottle had a curling ear,
Through which the belt he drew,
And hung a bottle on each side,
To make his balance true.
Then over all, that he might be
Equipped from top to toe,
His long red cloak, well brushed and neat,
He manfully did throw.
Now see him mounted once again
Upon his nimble steed,
Full slowly pacing o'er the stones
With caution and good heed.
But finding soon a smoother road
Beneath his well-shod feet,
The snorting beast began to trot,
Which galled him in his seat.
So, 'Fair and softly,' John he cried,
But John he cried in vain;
That trot became a gallop soon,
In spite of curb and rein.
So stooping down, as needs he must
Who cannot sit upright,
He grasped the mane with both his hands,
And eke with all his might.
His horse, which never in that sort
Had handled been before,
What thing upon his back had got
Did wonder more and more.
Away went Gilpin, neck or nought;
Away went hat and wig;
He little dreamt when he set out
Of running such a rig.
The wind did blow, the cloak did fly,
Like streamer long and gay,
Till, loop and button failing both,
At last it flew away.
Then might all people well discern
The bottles he had slung;
A bottle swinging at each side,
As hath been said or sung.
The dogs did bark, the children screamed,
Up flew the windows all;
And every soul cried out: 'Well done!'
As loud as he could bawl.
Away went Gilpin—who but he?
His fame soon spread around;
He carries weight! he rides a race!
'Tis for a thousand pound!
And still, as fast as he drew near,
'Twas wonderful to view
How in a trice the turnpike-men
Their gates wide open threw.
And now, as he went bowing down
His reeking head full low,
The bottles twain behind his back
Were shattered at a blow.
Down ran the wine into the road,
Most piteous to be seen,
Which made his horse's flanks to smoke
As they had basted been.
But still he seemed to carry weight,
With leathern girdle braced;
For all might see the bottle necks
Still dangling at his waist.
Thus all through merry Islington
These gambols he did play,
Until he came unto the Wash
Of Edmonton so gay;
And there he threw the wash about
On both sides of the way,
Just like unto a trundling mop,
Or a wild goose at play.
At Edmonton his loving wife
From the balcony spied
Her tender husband, wondering much
To see how he did ride.
'Stop, stop, John Gilpin!—Here's the house'—
They all aloud did cry;
The dinner waits, and we are tired!
Said Gilpin: So am I!'
But yet his horse was not a whit
Inclined to tarry there;
For why? his owner had a house
Full ten miles off, at Ware.
So like an arrow swift he flew,
Shot by an archer strong;
So did he fly—which brings me to
The middle of my song.
Away went Gilpin out of breath,
And sore against his will,
Till at his friend the calender's
His horse at last stood still.
The calender, amazed to see
His neighbour in such trim,
Laid down his pipe, flew to the gate,
And thus accosted him:
'What news? what news? your tidings tell—
Tell me you must and shall
Say why bareheaded you are come,
Or why you come at all?'
Now Gilpin had a pleasant wit,
And loved a timely joke;
And thus unto the calendar
In merry guise he spoke:
'I came because your horse would come;
And, if I well forebode,
My hat and wig will soon be here—
They are upon the road.'
The calender, right glad to find
His friend in merry pin,
Returned him not a single word,
But to the house went in;
Whence straight he came with hat and wig;
A wig that flowed behind,
A hat not much the worse for wear,
Each comely in its kind.
He held them up, and in his turn
Thus showed his ready wit:
`My head is twice as big as yours,
They therefore needs must fit.
But let me scrape the dirt away
That hangs upon your face:
And stop and eat, for well you may
Be in a hungry case.'
Said John: 'It is my wedding-day,
And all the world would stare
If wife should dine at Edmonton,
And I should dine at Ware.'
So turning to his horse, he said:
'I am in haste to dine;
'Twas for your pleasure you came here,
You shall go back for mine.'
Ah, luckless speech, and bootless boast!
For which he paid full dear;
For, while he spake, a braying ass
Did sing most loud and clear;
Whereat his horse did snort, as he
Had heard a lion roar,
And galloped off with all his might,
As he had done before.
Away went Gilpin, and away
Went Gilpin's hat and wig;
He lost them sooner than at first;
For why?—they were too big.
Now Mrs. Gilpin, when she saw
Her husband posting down
Into the country far away,
She pulled out half-a-crown;
And thus unto the youth she said
That drove them to the Bell:
'This shall be yours when you bring back
My husband safe and well.'
The youth did ride, and soon did meet
John coming back amain;
Whom in a trice he tried to stop,
By catching at his rein;
But not performing what he meant,
And gladly would have done,
The frighted steed he frighted more,
And made him faster run.
Away went Gilpin, and away
Went post-boy at his heels,
The post-boy's horse right glad to miss
The lumbering of the wheels.
Six gentlemen upon the road
Thus seeing Gilpin fly,
With post-boy scampering in the rear,
They raised the hue and cry:
Stop thief! stop thief!—a highwayman
Not one of them was mute;
And all and each that passed that way
Did join in the pursuit.
And now the turnpike gates again
Flew open in short space;
The tollmen thinking as before
That Gilpin rode a race.
And so he did, and won it too,
For he got first to town;
Nor stopped till where he had got up
He did again get down.
Now let us sing, long live the king,
And Gilpin, long live he;
And, when he next doth ride abroad,
May I be there to see!
TOLL for the Brave!
The brave that are no more!
All sunk beneath the wave
Fast by their native shore!
Eight hundred of the brave,
Whose courage well was tried,
Had made the vessel heel
And laid her on her side.
A land-breeze shook the shrouds,
And she was overset;
Down went the Royal George
With all her crew complete.
Toll for the brave!
Brave Kempenfelt is gone;
His last sea-fight is fought,
His work of glory done.
It was not in the battle;
No tempest gave the shock,
She sprang no fatal leak,
She ran upon no rock.
His sword was in its sheath,
His fingers held the pen,
When Kempenfelt went down
With twice four hundred men.
Weigh the vessel up,
Once dreaded by our foes!
And mingle with our cup
The tear that England owes.
Her timbers yet are sound,
And she may float again
Full charged with England's thunders
And plough the distant main:
But Kempenfelt is gone,
His victories are o'er;
And he and his eight hundred
Shall plough the wave no more.
WHEN the British warrior queen,
Bleeding from the Roman rods,
Sought, with an indignant mien,
Counsel of her country's gods,
Sage beneath the spreading oak
Sat the Druid, hoary chief;
Every burning word he spoke
Full of rage, and full of grief.
'Princess, if our aged eyes
Weep upon thy matchless wrongs,
'Tis because resentment ties
All the terrors of our tongues.
'Rome shall perish—write that word
In the blood that she has spilt;
Perish, hopeless and abhorr'd,
Deep in ruin as in guilt.
'Rome, for empire far renown'd,
Tramples on a thousand states;
Soon her pride shall kiss the ground—
Hark! the Gaul is at her gates!
'Other Romans shall arise,
Heedless of a soldier's name;
Sounds, not arms, shall win the prize,
Harmony the path to fame.
'Then the progeny that springs
From the forests of our land,
Arm'd with thunder, clad with wings,
Shall a wider world command.
'Regions Caesar never knew
Thy posterity shall sway;
Where his eagles never flew,
None invincible as they.'
Such the bard's prophetic words,
Pregnant with celestial fire,
Bending as he swept the chords
Of his sweet but awful lyre.
She, with all a monarch's pride,
Felt them in her bosom glow;
Rush'd to battle, fought, and died;
Dying hurl'd them at the foe.
'Ruffians, pitiless as proud,
Heaven awards the vengeance due
Empire is on us bestow'd,
Shame and ruin wait for you.'
Come, cheer up, my lads, 'tis to glory we steer,
To add something more to this wonderful year,
To honour we call you not press you like slaves,
For who are so free as the sons of the waves?
Hearts of oak are our ships, hearts of oak are our men,
We always are ready,
Steady, boys, steady,
We'll fight and we'll conquer again and again.
We ne'er see our foes but we wish them to stay,
They never see us but they wish us away;
If they run, why, we follow, and run them ashore,
For if they won't fight us, we cannot do more.
Hearts of oak are our ships, hearts of oak are our men,
We always are ready,
Steady, boys, steady,
We'll fight and we'll conquer again and again.
Still Britain shall triumph, her ships plough the sea,
Her standard be justice, her watchword 'Be free';
Then, cheer up, my lads, with one heart let us sing
Our soldiers, our sailors, our statesmen, our king.
Hearts of oak are our ships, hearts of oak are our men,
We always are ready,
Steady, boys, steady,
We'll fight and we'll conquer again and again.
GOOD people all, of every sort,
Give ear unto my song;
And if you find it wondrous short,
It cannot hold you long.
In Islington there was a man,
Of whom the world might say,
That still a godly race he ran
Whene'er he went to pray.
A kind and gentle heart he had,
To comfort friends and foes;
The naked every day he clad,
When he put on his clothes.
And in that town a dog was found,
As many dogs there be,
Both mongrel, puppy, whelp, and hound,
And curs of low degree.
This dog and man at first were friends;
But when a pique began,
The dog, to gain his private ends,
Went mad, and bit the man.
Around from all the neighbouring streets
The wondering neighbours ran,
And swore the dog had lost his wits,
To bite so good a man.
The wound it seem'd both sore and sad
To every Christian eye:
And while they swore the dog was mad,
They swore the man would die.
But soon a wonder came to light,
That show'd the rogues they lied,
The man recover'd of the bite,
The dog it was that died.
'TURN, gentle hermit of the dale,
And guide my lonely way,
To where yon taper cheers the vale
With hospitable ray.
'For here forlorn and lost I tread,
With fainting steps and slow;
Where wilds immeasurably spread,
Seem lengthening as I go.'
'Forbear, my son,' the hermit cries,
'To tempt the dangerous gloom;
For yonder phantom only flies
To lure thee to thy doom.
'Here, to the houseless child of want,
My door is open still:
And though my portion is but scant,
I give it with goodwill.
'Then turn to-night, and freely share
Whate'er my cell bestows;
My rushy couch and frugal fare,
My blessing and repose.
'No flocks that range the valley free,
To slaughter I condemn;
Taught by that power that pities me,
I learn to pity them.
But from the mountain's grassy side,
A guiltless feast I bring;
A script, with herbs and fruits supplied,
And water from the spring.
Then, Pilgrim, turn, thy cares forego;
All earth-born cares are wrong:
Man wants but little here below,
Nor wants that little long.'
Soft as the dew from heaven descends,
His gentle accents fell;
The modest stranger lowly bends,
And follows to the cell.
Far in a wilderness obscure,
The lonely mansion lay;
A refuge to the neighbouring poor,
And strangers led astray.
No stores beneath its humble thatch
Required a master's care;
The wicket, opening with a latch,
Received the harmless pair.
And now, when busy crowds retire,
To take their evening rest,
The hermit trimmed his little fire,
And cheered his pensive guest;
And spread his vegetable store,
And gaily pressed and smiled;
And, skilled in legendary lore,
The lingering hours beguiled.
Around, in sympathetic mirth,
Its tricks the kitten tries;
The cricket chirrups in the hearth,
The crackling fagot flies.
But nothing could a charm impart,
To soothe the stranger's woe;
For grief was heavy at his heart,
And tears began to flow.
His rising cares the hermit spied,
With answering care opprest:
'And whence, unhappy youth,' he cried,
'The sorrows of thy breast?
'From better habitations spurned,
Reluctant dost thou rove?
Or grieve for friendship unreturned,
Or unregarded love?
'Alas! the joys that fortune brings
Are trifling, and decay;
And those who prize the paltry things
More trifling still than they.
'And what is friendship but a name:
A charm that lulls to sleep!
A shade that follows wealth or fame,
And leaves the wretch to weep!
'And love is still an emptier sound,
The modern fair-one's jest;
On earth unseen, or only found
To warm the turtle's nest.
'For shame, fond youth, thy sorrows hush,
And spurn the sex,' he said:
But while he spoke, a rising blush
His love-lorn guest betrayed.
Surprised he sees new beauties rise,
Swift mantling to the view,
Like colours o'er the morning skies,
As bright, as transient too.
The bashful look, the rising breast,
Alternate spread alarms;
The lovely stranger stands confest
A maid in all her charms.
'And ah! forgive a stranger rude,
A wretch forlorn,' she cried,
Whose feet unhallowed thus intrude
Where heaven and you reside.
'But let a maid thy pity share,
Whom love has taught to stray:
Who seeks for rest, but finds despair
Companion of her way.
'My father lived beside the Tyne,
A wealthy lord was he;
And all his wealth was marked as mine
He had but only me.
'To win me from his tender arms,
Unnumbered suitors came;
Who praised me for imputed charms,
And felt, or feigned, a flame.
Each hour a mercenary crowd
With richest proffers strove;
Amongst the rest young Edwin bowed,
But never talked of love.
'In humblest, simplest habit clad,
No wealth nor power had he;
Wisdom and worth were all he had;
But these were all to me.
'The blossom opening to the day,
The dews of heaven refined,
Could nought of purity display,
To emulate his mind.
'The dew, the blossoms of the tree,
With charms inconstant shine;
Their charms were his; but, woe to me,
Their constancy was mine.
'For still I tried each fickle art,
Importunate and vain;
And while his passion touched my heart,
I triumphed in his pain.
'Till quite dejected with my scorn,
He left me to my pride;
And sought a solitude forlorn,
In secret, where he died!
'But mine the sorrow, mine the fault,
And well my life shall pay:
I'll seek the solitude he sought,
And stretch me where he lay.
'And there, forlorn, despairing, hid,
I'll lay me down and die:
'Twas so for me that Edwin did,
And so for him will I.'
Forbid it, Heaven!' the hermit cried,
And clasped her to his breast:
The wondering fair one turned to chide
'Twas Edwin's self that prest!
'Turn, Angelina, ever dear,
My charmer, turn to see
Thy own, thy long-lost Edwin here,
Restored to love and thee.
Thus let me hold thee to my heart,
And every care resign;
And shall we never, never part,
My life—my all that's mine?
'No, never from this hour to part,
We'll live and love so true;
The sigh that rends thy constant heart,
Shall break thy Edwin's too.'
WHEN the sheep are in the fauld, when the kye's come hame,
And a' the weary warld to rest are gane,
The waes o' my heart fa' in showers frae my e'e,
Unkent by my gudeman, wha sleeps sound by me.
Young Jamie lo'ed me weel, and sought me for his bride,
But saving ae crown-piece he had naething beside;
To make the crown a pound my Jamie gaed to sea,
And the crown and the pound—they were baith for me.
He hadna been gane a twelvemonth and a day,
When my father brake his arm and the cow was stown away;
My mither she fell sick—my Jamie was at sea,
And Auld Robin Gray came a courting me.
My father couldna work—my mither couldna spin—
I toiled day and night, but their bread I couldna win;
Auld Rob maintained them baith, and, wi' tears in his e'e,
Said: 'Jeanie, O for their sakes, will ye no marry me?'
My heart it said na, and I looked for Jamie back,
But hard blew the winds, and his ship was a wrack,
His ship was a wrack—why didna Jamie die,
Or why am I spared to cry wae is me?
My father urged me sair—my mither didna speak,
But she looked in my face till my heart was like to break;
They gied him my hand—my heart was in the sea—
And so Robin Gray he was gudeman to me.
I hadna been his wife a week but only four,
When, mournfu' as I sat on the stane at my door,
I saw my Jamie's ghaist, for I couldna think it he
Till he said: 'I'm come hame, love, to marry thee!'
Oh, sair sair did we greet, and mickle say of a',
I gied him ae kiss, and bade him gang awa'—
I wish that I were dead, but I'm na like to die,
For, though my heart is broken, I'm but young, wae is me!
I gang like a ghaist, and I carena much to spin,
I darena think o' Jamie, for that wad be a sin,
But I'll do my best a gude wife to be,
For, oh! Robin Gray, he is kind to me.
THE bride cam' out o' the byre,
And, oh, as she dighted her cheeks:
'Sirs, I'm to be married the night,
And have neither blankets nor sheets;
Have neither blankets nor sheets,
Nor scarce a coverlet too;
The bride that has a' thing to borrow,
Has e'en right muckle ado.'
Woo'd, and married, and a',
Married, and woo'd, and a'!
And was she nae very weel off,
That was woo'd, and married, and a'?
Out spake the bride's father,
As he cam' in frae the pleugh:
'Oh, haud your tongue, my dochter,
And ye'se get gear eneugh;
The stirk stands i' the tether,
And our braw bawsint yaud,
Will carry ye hame your corn—
What wad ye be at, ye jaud?'
Out spake the bride's mither:
What deil needs a' this pride?
I hadna a plack in my pouch
That night I was a bride;
My gown was linsey-woolsey,
And ne'er a sark ava;
And ye hae ribbons and buskins,
Mae than ane or twa.'
Out spake the bride's brither,
As he cam' in wi' the kye:
'Poor Willie wad ne'er hae ta'en ye,
Had he kent ye as weel as I;
For ye're baith proud and saucy,
And no for a poor man's wife;
Gin I canna get a better,
I'se ne'er tak ane i' my life.'
SOME talk of Alexander, and some of Hercules,
Of Hector and Lysander, and such great names as these,
But of all the world's great heroes, there's none that can compare,
With a tow, row, row, row, row, row, to the British Grenadier!
Those heroes of antiquity ne'er saw a cannon ball,
Or knew the force of powder to slay their foes withal;
But our brave boys do know it, and banish all their fears,
Sing tow, row, row, row, row, row, for the British Grenadiers!
Whene'er we are commanded to storm the palisades,
Our leaders march with fuses, and we with hand grenades,
We throw them from the glacis, about the enemies' ears,
Sing tow, row, row, row, row, row, the British Grenadiers!
And when the siege is over, we to the town repair,
The townsmen cry, Hurrah, boys, here comes a Grenadier!
Here come the Grenadiers, my boys, who know no doubts or fears!'
Then sing, tow, row, row, row, row, row, the British Grenadiers!
Then let us fill a bumper, and drink a health to those
Who carry caps and pouches, and wear the louped clothes,
May they and their commanders live happy all their years,
With a tow, row, row, row, row, row, for the British Grenadiers!
HERE 's to the maiden of bashful fifteen;
Now to the widow of fifty;
Here's to the flaunting extravagant quean
And here's to the housewife that 's thrifty.
Let the toast pass,
Drink to the lass,
I'll warrant she'll prove
An excuse for the glass.
Here's to the charmer whose dimples we prize,
Now to the damsel with none, Sir,
Here's to the girl with a pair of blue eyes,
And now to the nymph with but one, Sir.
Here's to the maid with a bosom of snow,
Now to her that's as brown as a berry,
Here's to the wife with a face full of woe,
And now to the damsel that's merry.
For let her be clumsy, or let her be slim,
Young or ancient, I care not a feather,
So fill up a bumper, nay, fill to the brim,
And let us e'en toast 'em together,
Let the toast pass,
Drink to the lass,
I'll warrant she'll prove
An excuse for the glass.
THE feathered songster chanticleer
Had wound his bugle-horn,
And told the early villager
The coming of the morn:
King Edward saw the ruddy streaks
Of light eclipse the gray,
And heard the raven's croaking throat,
Proclaim the fated day.
'Thou'rt right,' quoth he, for by the God
That sits enthroned on high!
Charles Bawdin, and his fellows twain,
To-day shall surely die.'
Then with a jug of nappy ale
His knights did on him wait;
'Go tell the traitor, that to-day
He leaves this mortal state.'
Sir Canterlone then bended low,
With heart brimful of woe;
He journeyed to the castle-gate,
And to Sir Charles did go.
But when he came, his children twain,
And eke his loving wife,
With briny tears did wet the floor,
For good Sir Charles's life.
'O good Sir Charles,' said Canterlone,
'Bad tidings I do bring.'
'Speak boldly, man,' said brave Sir Charles
'What says the traitor-king?'
'I grieve to tell: before yon sun
Does from the welkin fly,
He hath upon his honour sworn,
That thou shalt surely die.'
'We all must die,' said brave Sir Charles,
Of that I'm not afraid;
What boots to live a little space?
Thank Jesus, I'm prepared.
'But tell thy king, for mine he's not,
I'd sooner die to-day,
Than live his slave, as many are,
Though I should live for aye.'
Then Canterlone he did go out,
To tell the mayor straight
To get all things in readiness
For good Sir Charles's fate.
Then Mr. Canynge sought the king,
And fell down on his knee;
'I'm come,' quoth he, unto your grace,
To move your clemency.'
'Then,' quoth the king, your tale speak out,
You have been much our friend:
Whatever your request may be,
We will to it attend.'
My noble liege, all my request
Is for a noble knight,
Who, though mayhap he has done wrong,
He thought it still was right.
He has a spouse and children twain;
All ruined are for aye,
If that you are resolved to let
Charles Bawdin die to-day.'
'Speak not of such a traitor vile,'
The king in fury said;
'Before the evening-star doth shine,
Bawdin shall lose his head:
'Justice does loudly for him call,
And he shall have his meed:
Speak, Mr. Canynge, what thing else
At present do you need?'
'My noble liege,' good Canynge said,
Leave justice to our God,
And lay the iron rule aside;
Be thine the olive rod.
'Was God to search our hearts and reins,
The best were sinners great;
Christ's vicar only knows no sin,
In all this mortal state.
Let mercy rule thine infant reign,
'Twill fix thy crown full sure;
From race to race thy family
All sovereigns shall endure.
But if with blood and slaughter thou
Begin thy infant reign,
Thy crown upon thy children's brows
Will never long remain.'
'Canynge, away! this traitor vile
Has scorned my power and me;
How canst thou, then, for such a man
Entreat my clemency?'
'My noble liege, the truly brave
Will valorous actions prize:
Respect a brave and noble mind,
Although in enemies.'
'Canynge, away! By God in heaven
That did me being give,
I will not taste a bit of bread
Whilst this Sir Charles doth live!
'By Mary, and all saints in heaven,
This sun shall be his last!'
Then Canynge dropped a briny tear,
And from the presence passed.
With heart brimful of gnawing grief,
He to Sir Charles did go,
And sat him down upon a stool,
And tears began to flow.
We all must die,' said brave Sir Charles;
'What boots it how or when?
Death is the sure, the certain fate,
Of all we mortal men.
'Say why, my friend, thy honest soul
Runs over at thine eye;
Is it for my most welcome doom
That thou dost child-like cry?'
Saith godly Canynge: 'I do weep,
That thou so soon must die,
And leave thy sons and helpless wife
'Tis this that wets mine eye.'
'Then dry the tears that out thine eye
From godly fountains spring;
Death I despise, and all the power
Of Edward, traitor-king.
'When through the tyrant's welcome means
I shall resign my life,
The God I serve will soon provide
For both my sons and wife.
'Before I saw the lightsome sun,
This was appointed me;
Shall mortal man repine or grudge
What God ordains to be?
'How oft in battle have I stood,
When thousands died around;
When smoking streams of crimson blood
Imbrued the fattened ground?
'How did I know that every dart
That cut the airy way,
Might not find passage to my heart,
And close mine eyes for aye?
'And shall I now, for fear of death,
Look wan and be dismayed?
No! from my heart fly childish fear;
Be all the man displayed.
'Ah, godlike Henry, God forefend,
And guard thee and thy son,
If 'tis his will; but if 'tis not,
Why, then his will be done.
'My honest friend, my fault has been
To serve God and my prince;
And that I no time-server am,
My death will soon convince.
'In London city was I born,
Of parents of great note;
My father did a noble arms
Emblazon on his coat:
'I make no doubt but he is gone
Where soon I hope to go,
Where we for ever shall be blest,
From out the reach of woe.
'He taught me justice and the laws
With pity to unite;
And eke he taught me how to know
The wrong cause from the right:
'He taught me with a prudent hand
To feed the hungry poor,
Nor let my servants drive away
The hungry from my door:
'And none can say but all my life
I have his wordis kept;
And summed the actions of the day
Each night before I slept.
'I have a spouse, go ask of her
If I defiled her bed?
I have a king, and none can lay
Black treason on my head.
'In Lent, and on the holy eve,
From flesh I did refrain;
Why should I then appear dismayed
To leave this world of pain?
'No, hapless Henry, I rejoice
I shall not see thy death;
Most willingly in thy just cause
Do I resign my breath.
'Oh, fickle people! ruined land!
Thou wilt ken peace no moe;
While Richard's sons exalt themselves,
Thy brooks with blood will flow.
'Say, were ye tired of godly peace,
And godly Henry's reign,
That you did chop your easy days
For those of blood and pain?
'What though I on a sledge be drawn,
And mangled by a hind,
I do defy the traitor's power;
He cannot harm my mind:
'What though, uphoisted on a pole,
My limbs shall rot in air,
And no rich monument of brass
Charles Bawdin's name shall bear;
'Yet in the holy book above,
Which time can't eat away,
There with the servants of the Lord
My name shall live for aye.
'Then welcome death, for life eterne
I leave this mortal life:
Farewell, vain world, and all that's dear,
My sons and loving wife!
'Now death as welcome to me comes
As e'er the month of May;
Now would I even wish to live,
With my dear wife to stay.
Saith Canynge 'Tis a goodly thing
To be prepared to die;
And from this world of pain and grief
To God in heaven to fly.'
And now the bell began to toll,
And clarions to sound;
Sir Charles he heard the horses' feet
A-prancing on the ground.
And just before the officers,
His loving wife came in,
Weeping unfeigned tears of woe
With loud and dismal din.
'Sweet Florence, now I pray forbear,
In quiet let me die;
Pray God that every Christian soul
May look on death as I.
'Sweet Florence, why these briny tears?
They wash my soul away,
And almost make me wish for life,
With thee, sweet dame, to stay.
''Tis but a journey I shall go
Unto the land of bliss;
Now, as a proof of husband's love
Receive this holy kiss.'
Then Florence, faltering in her say,
Trembling these wordis spoke:
'Ah, cruel Edward! bloody king!
My heart is well-nigh broke.
'Ah, sweet Sir Charles, why wilt thou go
Without thy loving wife?
The cruel axe that cuts thy neck,'
It eke shall end my life.'
And now the officers came in
To bring Sir Charles away,
Who turned to his loving wife,
And thus to her did say:
'I go to life, and not to death;
Trust thou in God above,
And teach thy sons to fear the Lord,
And in their hearts Him love.
'Teach them to run the noble race
That I their father run.
Florence, should death thee take—adieu!
Ye officers, lead on.'
Then Florence raved as any mad,
And did her tresses tear;
'O stay, my husband, lord, and life!'
Sir Charles then dropped a tear.
Till tired out with raving loud,
She fell upon the floor;
Sir Charles exerted all his might,
And marched from out the door.
Upon a sledge he mounted then,
With looks full brave and sweet;
Looks that enshone no more concern
Than any in the street.
Before him went the council-men,
In scarlet robes and gold,
And tassels spangling in the sun,
Much glorious to behold:
The friars of Saint Augustine next
Appeared to the sight,
All clad in homely russet weeds,
Of godly monkish plight:
In different parts a godly psalm
Most sweetly they did chant;
Behind their back six minstrels came,
Who tuned the strange bataunt.
Then five-and-twenty archers came;
Each one the bow did bend,
From rescue of King Henry's friends
Sir Charles for to defend.
Bold as a lion came Sir Charles,
Drawn on a cloth-laid sledde,
By two black steeds in trappings white,
With plumes upon their head.
Behind him five-and-twenty more
Of archers strong and stout,
With bended bow each one in hand,
Marched in goodly rout.
Saint James's friars marched next,
Each one his part did chant;
Behind their backs six minstrels came,
Who tuned the strange bataunt.
Then came the mayor and aldermen,
In cloth of scarlet decked;
And their attending men each one,
Like eastern princes tricked.
And after them a multitude
Of citizens did throng;
The windows were all full of heads,
As he did pass along.
And when he came to the high cross,
Sir Charles did turn and say:
O Thou that savest man from sin,
Wash my soul clean this day.'
At the great minster window sat
The king in mickle state,
To see Charles Bawdin go along
To his most welcome fate.
Soon as the sledde drew nigh enough,
That Edward he might hear,
The brave Sir Charles he did stand up,
And thus his words declare:
'Thou seest me, Edward! traitor vile!
Exposed to infamy;
But be assured, disloyal man,
I'm greater now than thee.
By foul proceedings, murder, blood,
Thou wearest now a crown;
And hast appointed me to die
By power not thine own.
'Thou thinkest I shall die to-day;
I have been dead till now,
And soon shall live to wear a crown
For aye upon my brow;
'Whilst thou, perhaps, for some few years,
Shalt rule this fickle land,
To let them know how wide the rule
'Twixt king and tyrant hand.
'Thy power unjust, thou traitor slave!
Shall fall on thy own head'—
From out of hearing of the king
Departed then the sledde.
King Edward's soul rushed to his face,
He turned his head away,
And to his brother Gloucester
He thus did speak and say:
'To him that so-much-dreaded death
No ghastly terrors bring;
Behold the man! he spake the truth;
He's greater than a king!'
'So let him die!' Duke Richard said;
'And may each one our foes
Bend down their necks to bloody axe,
And feed the carrion crows.'
And now the horses gently drew
Sir Charles up the high hill;
The axe did glister in the sun,
His precious blood to spill.
Sir Charles did up the scaffold go,
As up a gilded car
Of victory, by valorous chiefs
Gained in the bloody war.
And to the people he did say:
'Behold you see me die,
For serving loyally my king,
My king most rightfully.
'As long as Edward rules this land,
No quiet you will know;
Your sons and husbands shall be slain,
And brooks with blood shall flow.
'You leave your good and lawful king
When in adversity;
Like me, unto the true cause stick,
And for the true cause die.'
Then he, with priests, upon his knees,
A prayer to God did make,
Beseeching Him unto Himself
His parting soul to take.
Then, kneeling down, he laid his head
Most seemly on the block;
Which from his body fair at once
The able headsman stroke:
And out the blood began to flow,
And round the scaffold twine;
And tears, enough to wash't away,
Did flow from each man's eyne.
The bloody axe his body fair
Into four partis cut;
And every part, and eke his head,
Upon a pole was put.
One part did rot on Kinwulph-hill,
One on the minster-tower,
And one from off the castle-gate
The crowen did devour.
The other on Saint Paul's good gate,
A dreary spectacle;
His head was placed on the high cross,
In high street most noble.
Thus was the end of Bawdin's fate:
God prosper long our king,
And grant he may, with Bawdin's soul,
In heaven God s mercy sing!
OH, sing unto my roundelay;
Oh, drop the briny tear with me;
Dance no more at holiday,
Like a running river be;
My love is dead,
Gone to his death-bed,
All under the willow-tree.
Black his hair as the winter night,
White his neck as summer snow,
Ruddy his face as the morning light,
Cold he lies in the grave below:
My love is dead,
Gone to his death-bed,
All under the willow-tree.
Sweet his tongue as throstle's note,
Quick in dance as thought was he;
Deft his tabor, cudgel stout;
Oh! he lies by the willow-tree.
My love is dead,
Gone to his death-bed,
All under the willow-tree.
Hark! the raven flaps his wing,
In the briered dell below;
Hark! the death-owl loud doth sing,
To the nightmares as they go.
My love is dead,
Gone to his death-bed,
All under the willow-tree.
See! the white moon shines on high;
Whiter is my true-love's shroud;
Whiter than the morning sky,
Whiter than the evening cloud.
My love is dead,
Gone to his death-bed,
All under the willow-tree.
Here, upon my true-love's grave,
Shall the garish flowers be laid,
Nor one holy saint to save
All the sorrows of a maid.
My love is dead,
Gone to his death-bed,
All under the willow-tree.
With my hands I'll bind the briers,
Round his holy corse to gre;
Elfin-fairy, light your fires,
Here my body still shall be.
My love is dead,
Gone to his death-bed,
All under the willow-tree.
Come with acorn cup and thorn,
Drain my heart's blood all away;
Life and all its good I scorn,
Dance by night, or feast by day,
My love is dead,
Gone to his death-bed,
All under the willow-tree.
Water-witches, crowned with reytes,
Bear me to your deadly tide.
I die—I come—my true-love waits.
Thus the damsel spake, and died.
PIPING down the valleys wild,
Piping songs of pleasant glee,
On a cloud I saw a child,
And he, laughing, said to me,
'Pipe a song about a lamb,'
So I piped with merry cheer;
Piper, pipe that song again,'
So I piped: he wept to hear.
Drop thy pipe, thy happy pipe,
Sing thy songs of happy cheer.'
So I sang the same again,
While he wept with joy to hear.
'Piper, sit thee down and write
In a book that all may read.'
So he vanish'd from my sight:
And I plu ck'd a hollow reed,
And I made a rural pen,
And I stain'd the water clear,
And I wrote my happy songs
Every child may joy to hear.
TIGER, tiger, burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?
In what distant deeps or skies
Burnt the ardour of thine eyes?
On what wings dare he aspire—
What the hand dare seize the fire?
And what shoulder, and what art
Could twist the sinews of thy heart?
And when thy heart began to beat,
What dread hand form'd thy dread feet?
What the hammer, what the chain,
In what furnace was thy brain?
Did God smile his work to see?
Did He who made the lamb make thee?
SCOTS, wha hae wi' Wallace bled,
Scots, wham Bruce has aften led;
Welcome to your gory bed,
Or to victorie!
Now's the day, and now's the hour;
See the front of battle lour;
See approach proud Edward's power—
Chains and slaverie!
Wha will be a traitor knave?
Wha can fill a coward's grave?
Wha sae base as be a slave?
Let him turn and flee!
Wha for Scotland's King and Law
Freedom's sword will strongly draw,
Free-man stand, or free-man fa'?
Let him follow me!
By Oppression's woes and pains!
By your sons in servile chains!
We will drain our dearest veins,
But they shall be free!
Lay the proud usurpers low!
Tyrants fall in every foe!
Liberty's in every blow!
Let us do, or die!
IS there, for honest poverty,
That hings his head, and a' that;
The coward-slave, we pass him by,
We dare be poor for a' that!
For a' that, and a' that;
Our toils obscure, and a' that;
The rank is but the guinea's stamp:
The man's the gowd for a' that.
What tho' on hamely fare we dine,
Wear hoddin grey, and a' that;
Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine,
A man's a man for a' that.
For a' that, and a' that,
Their tinsel show, and a' that;
The honest man, tho' e'er sae poor,
Is king o' men for a' that.
Ye see yon birkie, ca'd a lord,'
Wha struts, and stares, and a' that;
Tho' hundreds worship at his word,
He's but a coof for a' that:
For a' that, and a' that,
His riband, star, an' a' that,
The man of independent mind,
He looks and laughs at a' that.
A prince can mak' a belted knight,
A marquis, duke, an' a' that;
But an honest man's aboon his might,
Guid faith he mauna fa' that!
For a' that, an' a' that,
Their dignities, and a' that,
The pith o sense an' pride o' worth,
Are higher rank than a' that.
Then let us pray that come it may,
As come it will for a' that;
That sense and worth, o'er a' the earth,
May bear the gree, an' a' that.
For a' that, and a' that,
It's comin' yet, for a' that,
That man to man, the warld o'er,
Shall brothers be for a' that.
O, MY luve 's like a red, red rose,
That's newly sprung in June:
O, my luve's like the melodie
That's sweetly play'd in tune.
As fair art thou, my bonie lass,
So deep in luve am I:
And I will luve thee still, my dear,
Till a' the seas gang dry.
Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear,
And the rocks melt wi' the sun:
I will luve thee still, my dear,
While the sands o' life shall run.
And fare thee weel, my only luve,
And fare thee weel awhile!
And I will come again, my luve
Tho' it were ten thousand mile!
O, JENNY'S a' weet, poor body,
Jenny's seldom dry;
She draigl't a' her petticoatie,
Comin' thro' the rye.
Comin' thro' the rye, poor body,
Comin' thro' the rye,
She draigl't a' her petticoatie,
Comin' thro' the rye!
Gin a body meet a body—
Comin' thro' the rye;
Gin a body kiss a body—
Need a body cry?
Gin a body meet a body
Comin' thro' the glen,
Gin a body kiss a body
Need the warld ken?
Jenny 's a' weet, poor body;
Jenny 's seldom dry;
She draigl't a' her petticoatie,
Comin' thro' the rye.
WHILE larks with little wing
Fann'd the pure air,
Tasting the breathing spring,
Forth I did fare:
Gay the sun's golden eye
Peep'd o'er the mountains high;
'Such thy morn,' did I cry,
'Phillis the fair!'
In each bird's careless song
Glad did I share;
While yon wild flowers among,
Chance led me there:
Sweet to the opening day,
Rosebuds bent the dewy spray;
'Such thy bloom,' did I say,
'Phillis the fair!'
Down in a shady walk,
Doves cooing were,
I mark'd the cruel hawk
Caught in a snare;
So kind may Fortune be,
Such make his destiny,
He who would injure thee,
Phillis the fair!
AE fond kiss, and then we sever;
Ae fareweel, alas! for ever!
Deep in heart-wrung tears I'll pledge thee,
Warring sighs and groans I'll wage thee.
Who shall say that fortune grieves him,
While the star of hope she leaves him?
Me, nae cheerfu' twinkle lights me;
Dark despair around benights me.
I'll ne'er blame my partial fancy,
Naething could resist my Nancy;
But to see her was to love her;
Love but her, and love for ever.
Had we never loved sae kindly,
Had we never loved sae blindly,
Never met—or never parted,
We had ne'er been broken-hearted.
Fare-thee-weel, thou first and fairest!
Fare-thee-weel, thou best and dearest!
Thine be ilka joy and treasure,
Peace, enjoyment, love, and pleasure!
Ae fond kiss, and then we sever;
Ae fareweel, alas! for ever!
Deep in heart-wrung tears I'll pledge thee,
Warring sighs and groans I'll wage thee!
GO fetch to me a pint o' wine,
And fill it in a silver tassie;
That I may drink, before I go,
A service to my bonny lassie;
The boat rocks at the pier o' Leith,
Fu' loud the wind blaws frae the Ferry;
The ship rides by the Berwick law,
And I maun leave my bonny Mary.
The trumpets sound, the banners fly,
The glittering spears are ranked ready;
The shouts o' war are heard afar,
The battle closes thick and bloody;
But it's not the roar o' sea or shore
Wad make me langer wish to tarry;
Nor shouts o' war that's heard afar
It's leaving thee, my bonny Mary.
FLOW gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes,
Flow gently, I'll sing thee a song in thy praise;
My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream,
Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream.
Thou stock-dove whose echo resounds thro' the glen,
Ye wild whistling blackbirds in yon thorny den,
Thou green-crested lapwing, thy screaming forbear,
I charge you disturb not my slumbering fair.
How lofty, sweet Afton, thy neighbouring hills,
Far mark'd with the courses of clear, winding rills;
There daily I wander as noon rises high,
My flocks and my Mary's sweet cot in my eye.
How pleasant thy banks and green valleys below,
Where wild in the woodlands the primroses blow;
There oft as mild ev'ning weeps over the lea,
The sweet-scented birk shades my Mary and me.
Thy crystal stream, Afton, how lovely it glides,
And winds by the cot where my Mary resides;
How wanton thy waters her snowy feet lave,
As gathering sweet flow'rets she stems thy clear wave.
Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes,
Flow gently, sweet river, the theme of my lays;
My Mary 's asleep by thy murmuring stream,
Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream.
MY heart is sair, I daurna tell,
My heart is sair for Somebody;
I could wake a winter night,
For the sake o' Somebody!
Oh-hon! for Somebody!
Oh-hey! for Somebody!
I could range the world around,
For the sake o' Somebody.
Ye powers that smile on virtuous love,
O, sweetly smile on Somebody!
Frae ilka danger keep him free,
And send me safe my Somebody.
Oh-hon! for Somebody!
Oh-hey! for Somebody!
I wad do—what wad I not?
For the sake o' Somebody!
O WHISTLE, and I'll come to ye, my lad;
O whistle, and I'll come to ye, my lad:
Tho' father and mither and a' should gae mad,
O whistle, and I'll come to ye, my lad.
But warily tent, when ye come to court me,
And come na unless the back-yett be a-jee;
Syne up the back-stile, and let naebody see,
And come as ye were na comin' to me.
At kirk, or at market, whene'er ye meet me,
Gang by me as tho' that ye car'd na a flie
But steal me a blink o' your bonie black ee,
Yet look as ye were na lookin' at me.
Aye vow and protest that ye care na for me,
And whiles ye may lightly my beauty a wee;
But court na anither, tho jokin' ye be,
For fear that she wyle your fancy frae me.
O whistle, and I'll come to ye, my lad;
O whistle, and I 'll come to ye, my lad:
Tho' father and mither and a' should gae mad,
O whistle, and I'll come to ye, my lad.
THE De'il cam fiddling thro' the town,
And danc'd awa wi' the Exciseman;
And ilka wife cry'd 'Auld Mahoun,
We wish you luck o' your prize, man.
'We'll mak our maut, and brew our drink,
We'll dance, and sing, and rejoice, man;
And monie thanks to the muckle black De'il
That danc'd awa wi' the Exciseman.
'There's threesome reels, and foursome reels,
There's hornpipes and strathspeys, man;
But the ae best dance that cam to our lan',
Was—the De'il 's awa wi' the Exciseman.
We'll mak our maut, and brew our drink,
We'll dance, and sing, and rejoice, man;
And monie thanks to the muckle black De'il
That danc'd awa wi' the Exciseman.'
LASSIE wi' the lint-white locks,
Bonie lassie, artless lassie,
Wilt thou wi' me tent the flocks?
Wilt thou be my dearie O?
Now nature cleeds the flowery lea,
And a' is young and sweet like thee;
O wilt thou share its joys wi' me,
And say thou'lt be my dearie O?
Lassie wi' the lint-white locks . . .
And when the welcome simmer-shower
Has cheer'd ilk drooping little flower,
We'll to the breathing woodbine bower
At sultry noon, my dearie O.
Lassie wi' the lint-white locks . . .
When Cynthia lights, wi' silver ray,
The weary shearer's hameward way,
Thro' yellow waving fields we'll stray,
And talk o' love, my dearie O.
Lassie wi' the lint-white locks . . .
And when the howling wintry blast
Disturbs my lassie's midnight rest;
Enclasped to my faithfu' breast,
I'll comfort thee, my dearie O.
Lassie wi' the lint-white locks,
Bonie lassie, artless lassie,
Wilt thou wi' me tent the flocks?
Wilt thou be my dearie O?
OF a' the airts the wind can blaw,
I dearly like the west,
For there the bonie lassie lives,
The lassie I lo'e best:
There wild woods grow, and rivers row,
And monie a hill between;
But day and night my fancy's flight
Is ever wi' my Jean.
I see her in the dewy flowers,
I see her sweet and fair:
I hear her in the tunefu' birds,
I hear her charm the air:
There's not a bonie flower that springs
By fountain, shaw, or green;
There's not a bonie bird that sings,
But, minds me o' my Jean.
O, WILLIE brew'd a peck o' maut,
And Rob and Allan cam to pree;
Three blither hearts that lee-lang night,
Ye wad na find in Christendie.
We are na fou, we're no that fou,
But just a drappie in our ee:
The cock may craw, the day may daw,
And aye we'll taste the barley bree.
Here are we met, three merry boys,
Three merry boys, I trove, are we;
And monie a night we've merry been,
And monie mae we hope to be!
It is the moon, I ken her horn,
That's blinkin' in the lift sae hie;
She shines sae bright to wyle us hame,
But by my sooth she'll wait a wee!
Wha first shall rise to gang awa,
A cuckold, coward loun is he!
Wha first beside his chair shall fa',
He is the King amang us three!
We are na fou, we're no that fou,
But just a drappie in our ee:
The cock may craw, the day may daw,
And aye we'll taste the barley bree.