A BALLAD.

1

JOHN BARLEY CORN.

They laid him out upon the floor,

To work him farther woe,

And still, as signs of life appear'd,
There was three kings into the east,

They tossed him to and fro.
Three kings both great and high,
An' they ha' sworn a solemn oath,

They wasted, o'er a scorching flame,
John Barleycorn should die.

The marrow of his bones ;

But a miller used him worst of all,
They took a plough and plough'd him down,

For he crush'd him between two stones.
Put clods upon his head,
And they hae sworn a solemn oath

And they ha' taen his very heart's blood,
John Barleycorn was dead.

And drank it round and round;

And still the more and more they drank,
But the cheerful spring came kindly on,

Their joy did more abound.
And show’rs began to fall;
John Barleycorn got up again,

John Barleycorn was a hero bold,
And sore surpris'd them all.

Of noble enterprise,

For if you do but taste his blood,
The sultry suns of summer came,

'Twill make your courage rise.
And he grew thick and strong,
His head weel arm'd wi' pointed spears,

'Twill make a man forget his woe;
That no one should him wrong.

'Twill heighten all his joy ;

'Twill make the widow's heart to sing,
The sober autumn entered mild,

Though the tear were in her eye.
When he grew wan and pale;
His bending joints and drooping head

Then let us toast John Barleycorn,
Show'd he began to fail.

Each map a glass in hand;

And may his great posterity
His colour sicken'd more and more,

Ne'er fail in old Scotland!
He faded into age,
And then his enemies began
To show their deadly rage.

SONG.
They've ta'en a weapon, long and sharp,

Had I a cave on some wild distant shore,
And cut him by the knee ;

Where the winds howl to the waves' dashing roar,
Then tied him fast upon a cart,

There would I weep my woes,
Like a rogue for forgerie.

There seek my lost repose,
They laid him down upon his back,

Till grief my eyes should close,

Ne'er to wake more.
And cudgell'd him full sore ;
They hung him up before the storm,

Falsest of womankind, canst thou declare
And turn'd him o'er and o'er.

All thy fond plighted vows fleeting as air?
They filled up a darksome pit

To thy new lover hie,
With water to the brim,

Laugh o'er thy perjury,
They heaved in John Barleycorn,

Then in thy bosom try
There let him sink or swim.

What peace is there.

PART III.

SONGS, &c.

CHIEFLY FROM

THE ANCIENT DRAMATIC AUTHORS.

SONGS, &c.

CHIEFLY FROM THE ANCIENT DRAMATIC AUTHORS.

SHAKSPEARE.
SONNETS.

Intend a zealous pilgrimage to thee,
When I do count the clock that tells the time,

And keep my drooping eye-lids open wide, And see the brave day sunk in hideous night;

Looking on darkness which the blind doth see. When I behold the violet past prime,

Save that my soul's imaginary sight And sable curls, all silver'd o'er with white;

Presents thy shadow to my sightless view, When lofty trees I see barren of leaves,

Which, like a jewel hung in ghastly night, Which erst from heat did canopy the herd,

Makes black night beauteous, and her old face new. And summer's green all girded up in sheaves,

Lo thus by day my limbs, by night my mind, Borne on the bier with white and bristly beard ;

For thee, and for myself, no quiet find. Then of thy beauty do I question make,

When in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes, That thou among the wastes of time must go,

I all alone beweep my out-cast state, Since sweets and beauties do themselves forsake,

And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries, And die as fast as they see others grow;

And look upon myself, and curse my fate, And nothing 'gainst time's scythe can make defence,

Wishing me like to one more rich in hope, Save breed, to brave him, when he takes thee hence.

Featur'd like him, like him with friends possess'd, But wherefore do not you a mightier way

Desiring this man's art, and that man's scope, Make war upon this bloody tyrant, Time ?

With what I most enjoy contented least : And fortify yourself in your decay

Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising, With means more blessed than my barren rhime ?

Haply I think on thee,—and then my state Now stand you on the top of happy hours;

(Like to the lark at break of day arising And many maiden gardens yet unset,

From sullen earth) sings hymns at heaven's gate; With virtuous wish would bear you living flowers,

For thy sweet love remember'd, such wealth brings, Much liker than your painted counterfeit;

That then I scorn to change my state with kings. So should the lines of life that life repair, Which this, 'Time's pencil, or my pupil pen,

If thou survive my well-contented day, Neither in inward worth, nor outward fair,

When that churl death my bones with dust shall Can make you live yourself in eyes of men.

And shalt by fortune once more re-survey (cover,

These poor rude lines of thy deceased lover,
To give away yourself, keeps yourself still;
And you must live, drawn by your own sweet skill.

Compare them with the bettering of the time;

And though they be out-stripp'd by every pen, Let those who are in favour with their stars,

Reserve them for my love, not for their rhime, Of public honour and proud titles boast,

Exceeded by the height of happier men. Whilst I, whom fortune of such triumph bars,

O then vouchsafe me but this loving thought! Unlook'd for joy in that I honour'd most.

Had my friend's muse grown with this growing age Great princes favourites their fair leaves spread, A dearer birth than this his love had brought, But as the marigold at the sun's eye;

To march in ranks of better equipage: And in themselves their pride lies buried,

But since he died, and poets better prove, For at a frown they in their glory die.

Theirs for their style I'll read, his for his love. The painful warrior famoused for fight, After a thousand victories once foil'd,

Full many a glorious morning have I seen Is from the book of honor razed quite,

Flatter the mountain tops with sovereign eye, And all the rest forgot for which he toil'd.

Kissing with golden face the meadows green, Then happy I, that love and am belov'd,

Gilding pale streams with heavenly alchymy; Where I may not remove, nor be removed.

Anon permit the basest clouds to ride

With ugly rack on his celestial face, Weary with toil, I haste me to my bed,

And from the forlorn world his visage hide, The dear repose for limbs with travel tired ;

Stealing unseen to west with this disgrace: But then begins a journey in my head,

E'en so my sun one early morn did shine, To work my mind, when body's work's expired: With all triumphant splendour on my brow; For then my thoughts (from far where I abide) But out! alack! he was but one hour mine,