God grant eche man one to amend;
God send us all a happy place;
And let us pray unto the end,

That we may have our princes grace:
Amen, amen! so shall we gaine

A dewe reward for all our paine.

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30

VII.

GLASGERION.

An ingenious friend thinks that the following old ditty (which is printed from the Editor's folio MS.) may possibly have given birth to the tragedy of 'the Orphan,' by Otway, in which Polidore intercepts Monimia's intended favours to Castalio.

See what is said concerning the hero of this song, (who is celebrated by Chaucer under the name of Glaskyrion,) in the Essay prefixed to Vol. I. Note H. Pt. IV. (2).

GLASGERION was a kings owne sonne,

And a harper he was goode:

He harped in the kinges chambere,
Where cuppe and caudle stoode.

And soe did hee in the queens chamber,
Till ladies waxed [glad.]

5

And then bespake the kinges daughter;
And these wordes thus shee sayd.

'Strike on, strike on, Glasgèrion,

Of thy striking doe not blinne:

10

Theres never a stroke comes oer thy harpe,

But it glads my hart withinne.'

'Faire might he fall, ladye,' quoth hee,

"Who taught you nowe to speake!

Ver. 6, wood, MS.

I have loved you, ladye, seven longe yeere
My minde I neere durst breake.'

But come to my bower, my Glasgeriòn,
When all men are att rest:

As I am a lady true of my promise,
Thou shalt bee a welcome guest.'

Home then came Glasgèrion,

A glad man, lord! was hee.

And, 'come thou hither, Jacke my boy:
Come hither unto mee.

For the kinges daughter of Normandye
Hath granted mee my boone:
And att her chambere must I bee
Beffore the cocke have crowen.'

'O master, master,' then quoth hee,
'Lay your head downe on this stone:
For I will waken you, master deere,
Afore it be time to gone.'

But up then rose that lither ladd,

And hose and shoone did on:
A coller he cast upon his necke,

Hee seemed a gentleman.

And when he came to the ladies chamber,

He thrild upon a pinn.1

The lady was true of her promise,

Rose up and lett him in.

Ver. 16, harte, MS.

1 This is elsewhere expressed, 'twirled the pin,' or 'tirled at the pin,' [See B. II. S. VI. v. 3,] and seems to refer to the turning round the button on the outside of a door, by which the latch rises, still used in cottages.

He did not take the lady gaye

To boulster nor to bed:

[Nor thoughe hee had his wicked wille, A single word he sed.]

He did not kisse that ladyes mouthe,
Nor when he came, nor youd:
And sore mistrusted that ladye gay,
He was of some churls bloud.

45

But home then came that lither ladd,
And did off his hose and shoone;

50

And caste the coller from off his necke:
He was but a churlès sonne.

'Awake, awake, my deere master,
The cock hath well-nigh crowen,
Awake, awake, my master deere,
I hold it time to be gone.

For I have saddled your horsse, mastèr,
Well bridled I have your steede:

And I have served you a good breakfast:
For thereof ye have need.'

Up then rose good Glasgeriòn,
And did on hose and shoone;
And cast a coller about his necke:
For he was a kinge his sonne.

And when he came to the ladyes chamber,

He thrild upon the pinne;

The ladye was more than true of promise,
And rose and let him inn.

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60

65

Saies, whether have you left with me
Your bracelett or your glove?
Or are you returned backe againe
To know more of my love?'

Glasgèrion swore a full great othe,

By oake, and ashe, and thorne ; 'Lady, I was never in your chambèr, Sith the time that I was borne.'

O then it was your lither foot-page,

He hath beguiled mee.'

Then shee pulled forth a litle pen-kniffe,

That hanged by her knee:

Sayes, there shall never noe churlès blood
Within my bodye spring:

No churlès blood shall ever defile

The daughter of a kinge.'

Home then went Glasgèrion,

And woe, good lord, was hee.

Sayes, come thou hither, Jacke my boy,
Come hither unto meẹ.

If I had killed a man to night,

Jacke, I would tell it thee:

But if I have not killed a man to night
Jacke, thou hast killed three.'

And he puld out his bright browne sword,

And dryed it on his sleeve,

And he smote off that lither ladds head,
Who did his ladye grieve.

Ver. 77, litle, MS.

70

75

80

85

90

95

He sett the swords poynt till his brest,
The pummil untill a stone:

Throw the falsenesse of that lither ladd,

These three lives werne all

gone.

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VIII.

OLD ROBIN OF PORTINGALE.

From an ancient copy in the Editor's folio MS. which was judged to require considerable corrections.

In the former edition the hero of this piece had been called Sir Robin, but that title not being in the MS. is now omitted.

LET never again soe old a man
Marrye soe yonge a wife,

As did old Robin of Portingale;

Who may rue all the dayes of his life.

For the mayors daughter of Lin, god wott,
He chose her to his wife,

And thought with her to have lived in love,
But they fell to hate and strife.

They scarce were in their wed-bed laid,

And scarce was hee asleepe,

But upp shee rose, and forth shee goes,
To the steward, and gan to weepe.

'Sleepe you, wake you, faire sir Gyles?
Or be you not within?

Sleepe you, wake you, faire sir Gyles,
Arise and let me inn.'

'O, I am waking, sweete,' he said,
'Sweete ladye, what is your will?'