ANCIENT PO E M S.

They ranted, drank, and mérry made,

Till all his gold it waxed thinne;
And then his friendes they flunk away;
They left the unthrifty heire of Linne.

He had never a penny left in his purse,
Never a penny left but three,

The tone was brafs, and the tone was lead,
And tother it was white money.

Nowe well-away, fayd the heire of Linne,
Nowe well-away, and woe is mee,
For when I was the lord of Linne,
I never wanted gold or fee.

But many a truftye friend have I,

And why fhold I feel dole or care ?
Ile borrow of them all by turnes,
Soe need I not be never bare.

But one, I wis, was not at home,..

Another had payd his gold away;

Another call'd him thriftless loone,

And bade him sharpely wend his way.

Now well-away, fayd the heire of Linne,

Now well-away, and woe is me !
For when I had my landes fo broad,

On me they liv'd right merrilee.
K 2.

131

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То

To beg my bread from door to door

I wis, it were a brenning fháme : To rob and fteal it were a finne :

To worke my limbs I cannot frame.

Now Ile away to lonesome lodge,

For there my father bade me wend; When all the world should frown on mee, I there fhold find a trufty friend.

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A

PART THE SECOND.

WAY then hyed the heire of Linne

O'er hill and holt, and moor and fenne,

Untill he came to lonefome lodge, ;

That stood fo lowe in a lonely glenne.

He looked up, he looked downe,

In hope fome comfort for to winne,

But bare and lothly were the walles :

Here's forry cheare, quo' the heire of Linne.

The little windowe dim and darke

Was hung with ivy, brere, and yewe; No fhimmering funn here ever fhone;

No halefome breeze here ever blew.

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ANCIENT POEMS. 133.

No chair, ne table he mote spye,

No chearful hearth, ne welcome bed,

Nought fave a rope with renning noofe,

That dangling hung up o'er his head.

And over it in broad letters,

These words were written fo plain to fee: "Ah! graceleffe wretch, haft fpent thine all, And brought thyfelfe to penurìe?

"All this my boding mind mifgave,
"I therefore left this trufty friend:
"Let it now fheeld thy foule difgrace,
"And all thy fhame and forrows end."

Sorely fhent wi' this rebuke,

Sorely fhent was the heire of Linne, His heart, I wis, was near to braft

With guilt and forrowe, fhame and finne.

Never a word fpake the heire of Linne,

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Never a word he spake but three:

"This is a trufty friend indeed,

"And is right welcome unto mee,"

Then round his necke the corde he drewe,
And fprang aloft with his bodie:

30

When lo! the ceiling burft in twaine,

35

And to the ground came tumbling hee.

K 3

Aftonyed