O willow, willow, willow! O willow, willow, willow!

Liny death.

ing, O the greene willow fhall be my garland!

§ 104. Barbara Allen's Cruelty,

N Scarlet towne, where I was borne, There was a fair maid dwellin, Made every youth crye, Wel-awaye ! Her name was Barbara Allen.

All in the merrye month of May,

When greene buds they were swellin, Young Jemmye Grove on his death-bed lay, For love of Barbara Allen,

He sent his man unto her then,

To the town where thee was dwellin; You must come to my mafter deare, Giff your name be Barbara Allen. For death is printed on his face,

And ore his harte is stealin:
Then hafte away to comfort him,

O lovely Barbara Allen.
Though death be printed on his face,
And ore his harte is stealin,
Yet little better fhall he bee
For bonny Barbara Allen.
So flowly, flowly, the came up,

And flowly he came nye him;
And all the fay'd, when there the came,
Young man, I think y' are dying.
He turned his face unto her strait,
With deadlye forrow fighing;
O lovely maid, come pitty mee,
Ime on my death-bed lying.
If on your death-bed you doe lye,
What needs the tale you are tellin;
I cannot keep you from your death:
Farewell, fayd Barbara Allen.
Ile turned his face unto the wall,
As deadly pangs he fell in :
Adieu! adieu! adicu to you all!
Adieu to Barbara Allen!
As fhe was walking ore the fields,
She heard the bells a knellin;
And every ftroke did feem to faye,
Unworthye Barbara Allen.
She turned her bodye round about,
And fpied the corpfe a coming:
Laye down, laye down the corps, fhe fayd,
That I may look upon him.
With fcornful eye fhe looked downe,
Her check with laughter fwellin;
What all her friends cryd out amaine,
Unworthy Barbara Allen.

When he was dead, and laid in grave,
Her harte was ftruck with forrowe;
O mother, mother, make my bed,
For I hall dye to-morrowe.

When he was alive and neare me! She, on her death-bed as fhe laye, Beg'd to be buried by him: And fore repented of the daye That the did ere denye him. Farewell, the fayd, ye virgins all, And fhun the fault I fell in: Henceforth take warning by the fall Of cruel Barbara Allen.

§ 105. The Frolicfome Duke, or the Tinker's good Fortune.

The following ballad is upon the fame fubject as the Induction to Shakspeare's Taming of the Shrew: whether it may be thought to have fuggefted the hint to the Dramatic poet, or is not rather of later date, the reader must determine.

The story is told of Philip the Good, Duke of Burgundy, and is thus related by an old Englith writer: "The faid Duke, at the marriage of Eleonora, fifter to the King of Portugall, at Bruges in Flanders, which was folemnifed in the deepe of winter; when as by reason of unfeafonable weather he could neither hawke nor hunt, and was now tired with cards, dice, &c. and fuch other domeftick sports, or to fee ladies dance; with fome of his courtiers, he would in the evening walke disguised all about the towne. It fo fortuned, as he was walking late one night, he found a country fellow dead drunke, fnorting on a bulke; he caufed his followers to bring him to his palace, and there ftripping him of his old clothes, and attyring him after the court fashion, when he wakened, he and they were all ready to attend upon his excellency, and perfuade him that he was fome great Duke. The poor fellow, admiring how he came there, was ferved in state all day long: after fupper he faw them dance, heard muficke, and all the rest of thofe court-like pleasures: but late at night, when he was well-tipled, and again faft afleepe, they put on his old robes, and fo conveyed him to the place where they firft found him. Now the fellow had not made them fo good fport the day before, as he did now, when he returned to himfelf: all the jest was to fee how he looked upon it. In conclufion, after fome little admiration, the poor man told his friends he had feen a vifion; conftantly believed it; would not otherwife be perfuaded, and fo the jeft ended." Burton's Anatomy of Melancholy. pt. 2. fect. 2. memb. 4. 2d ed. 1624. fol.

NOW as fame does report, a young duke keeps

a court,

One that pleases his fancy with frolick fome fport: But among all the rest, here is one, I proteft, Which will make you to fmile when you hear the A poor

true jeft:

On a bed of foft down, like a lord of renown, They did lay him to fleep the drink out of his crown. In the morning when day, then admiring he lay, For to fee the rich chamber both gaudy and

gay. Now he lay fomething late, in his rich bed of state, Till at laft knights and fquires they on him did wait;

And the chamberlain bare then did likewife declare,

He defired to know what apparel he'd wear : The poor tinker amaz'd, on the gentleman gaz'd, And admired how he to his honour was rais'd.

Tho' he feem'd fomething mute, yet he chofe a rich fuit,

Which he ftraitways put on without longer difpute; With a ftar on his fide, which the tinker oft eyed, And it feem'd for to fwell him no little with pride; For he faid to himfelf, Where is Joan my fweet wife? Sure fhe never did fee me fo fine in her life.

From a convenient place the right duke his good grace

Did obferve his behaviour in every cafe.
To a garden of ftate on the tinker they wait,
Trumpets founding before him; thought he, this

is great:

Where an hour or two pleafant walks he did view,
With commanders and fquires in fcarlet and blue.

A fine dinner was dreft, both for him and his guests,
He was plac'd at the table above all the reft,
In a rich chair or bed, lin'd with fine crimfon red,
With a rich golden canopy over his head:
As he fat at his meat, the mufic play'd fweet,
With the choiceft of finging his joys to complete.

While the tinker did dine, he had plenty of wine,
Rich canary and fherry, and tent fupertine.
Like a right hone foul, faith, he took off his

bowl,

Till at last he began for to tumble and roll From his chair to the floor, where he fleeping did fnoie,

Being feven times drunker than ever before. Then the duke did ordain, they fhould strip him amain,

And refore him his old leather garments again:

'Twas a point next the worst, yet perform it they

muft,

And they carried him ftraight where they found him at first;

Then he slept all the night, as indeed well he might,
But when he did waken his joys took their fight.

For his glory to him so pleasant did seem,
That he thought it to be but a mere golden dream
Till at length he was brought to the duke, where
he fought

For a pardon, as fearing he'd fet him at nought;
But his highness he faid, Thou 'it a jolly bold biade,
Such a frolic before I think never was play'd.

Then his highnefs bespoke him a new fuit and

cloak,

§ 106. Song. Death's Final Conqueft. These fine moral ftanzas were originally intended for a folemn funeral fong in a play of Jares Shirley's, intitled "The Contention of Ax "and Ulyffes." Shirley flourished as a dramatic writer early in the reign of Charles I. but he outlived the Reftoration. His death p pened Oct. 29, 1666, æt. 72. It is faid to bait been a favourite fong with K. Charles II. THE glories of our birth and state

Are fhadows, not fubftantial things;
There is no armour against fate:
Death lays his icy hands on kings:
Sceptre and crown

Muft tumble down,
And in the dust be equal made
With the poor crooked feythe and spade.
Some men with fwords may reap the field,

And plant fresh laurels where they kill:
But their strong nerves at last must yield,
They tame but one another still.

Early or late

They ftoop to fate,

And muft give up their murmuring breath, When they, pale captives, creep to death.

The

The garlands wither on your brow,
Then boaft no more your mighty deeds,
Upon death's purple altar now

See where the victor victim bleeds:
All heads must come

To the cold tomb :

Only the actions of the juft

Smell fweet, and bloffom in the dust.

fix her 'twere a task as vain
To count the April drops of rain,
To fow in Afric's barren foil,
Or tempefts hold within a toil.

I know it, friend, the's light as air,
Falfe as the fowler's artful fnare;
Inconftant as the paffing wind,
As winter's dreary froft unkind.
She's fuch a mifer too in love,
Its joys fhe'll neither fhare nor prove;
Tho' hundred of gallants await
From her victorious eyes their fate.
Blushing at fuch inglorious reign,
I fometimes ftrive to break her chain;
My reafon fummon to my aid,
Refolve no more to be betray'd.
Ah, friend! 'tis but a fhort-liv'd trance,
Difpell'd by one enchanting glance;
She need but look, and I confefs
Thofe looks completely curfe or blefs.
So foft, fo elegant, so fair,

Sure fomething more than human's there:
I muft fubmit, for ftrife is vain;
'Twas deftiny that forg'd the chain.

My Gilderoy and I were born
Baith in one toun together;
We fcant were feven years beforn
We gan to luve each other;
Our dadies and our mammies thay
Were fill'd wi' mickle joy,
To think upon the bridal day
'Twixt me and Gilderoy.

For Gilderoy, that luve of mine,
Gude faith, I freely bought
A wedding fark of holland fing
Wi' filken flowers wrought:
And he gied me a wedding ring,
Which I receiv'd wi' joy,
Nac lad nor laffie cir could fing
Like me and Gilderoy.

Wi' mickle joy we fpent our prime,
Till we were baith fixteen,
And aft we past the langfome time
Among the leaves fae green:
Aft on the banks we'd fit us thair,
And fweetly kifs and toy;
Wi' garlands gay wad deck
my hair
My handfome Gilderoy.

Oh! that he ftill had been content
Wi' me to lead his life;
But, ah! his manfu' heart was bent
To ftir in feats of strife!
And he in many a venturous deed
His courage bauld wad try;
And now this gars mine heart to bleed
For my dear Gilderoy.

And when of me his leave he tuik,

I

The tears they wet mine ee;

gave tull him a parting luik,

66

My benifon gang wi' thee!
God fpced thee weil, mine ain dear heart,
For gane is all my joy;
My heart is rent, fith we maun part,
My handfome Gilderoy !"

My Gilderoy, baith far and near,
Was fear'd in every toun,
And bauldly bare away the gear
Of many a lawland foun;
Nane cir durft meet him man to man,

He was fae brave a boy;

At length wi' numbers he was tane,
My winfome Gilderoy.

Wae worth the loun that made the laws,
To hang a man for gear,

To 'reave of life for ox or afs,

For fheep, or horse, or mare:

Had not their laws been made fae ftrick,
I neir had loft my joy;
Wi' forrow neir had wat my cheek,
For my dear Gilderoy.

Giff Gilderoy had done amiffe,
He mought hac banisht been,

Ah, what fair cruelty is this,
To hang fike handfome men!

To hang the flower o' Scottish land,
Sae fweet a fair a boy;

Nae lady had fae white a hand,
As thee, my Gilderoy.
Of Gilderoy fae fraid they were,
They bound him mickle ftrong,
Tull Edenburrow they led him thair,
And on a gallows hung:

They hung him high aboon the reft,

He was fae trim a boy;

Thair dyed the youth whom I lued beft,
My hand ome Gilderoy.

Thus having yielded up his breath,
I bare his corpfe away,

Wi' tears, that trickled for his death,
I washt his comelyc clay;
And fiker in a grave fac deep

I laid the dear-lued boy,

And now for evir maun I weep,

My winfome Gilderoy.

$109. Song. Bryan and Perecne, a Weft-Indian Ballad, founded on a real fact, that happened in the Ifland of St. Chriftopher's. GRAINGER.

THE north-east wind did brifkly blow,
The thip was fafely moor'd;"
Young Bryan thought the boat's crew flow,
And fo leapt over-board.

Pereene, the pride of Indian dames,
His heart long held in thrall;

And whofo his impatience blames,
I wot ne'er lov'd at all.

A long long year, one month and day,
He dwelt on English land;

Nor once in thought or deed would stray,
Tho' ladies fought his hand.

For Bryan he was tall and ftrong,

Right blythfome roll'd his een;
Sweet was his voice whene'er he sung:
He fcant had twenty
feen.

But who the countless charms can draw,
That grac'd his miftrefs true?
Such charms the old world feldom faw,
Nor oft I ween the new.

Her raven hair plays round her neck,
Like tendrils of the vine;
Her cheeks red dewy rofe-buds deck,
Her eyes like diamonds fhine.
Soon as his well-known fhip the spied,
She caft her weeds away;
And to the palmy fhore the hied,
All in her beft array.

In fea-green filk fo neatly clad

She there impatient flood;
The crew with wonder faw the lad
Repel the foaming flood.

Her hands a handkerchief display'd,
Which he at partiag gave;
Well pleas'd the token he furvey'd,
And manlier beat the wave.

Her fair companions one and all Rejoicing crowd the strand; For now her lover fwam in call, And almoft touch'd the land.

Then through the white furf did she haste, To clafp her lovely swain;

When, ah! a fhark bit through his waift: His heart's blood died the inain !

He fhrick'd his half sprang from the wave, Streaming with purple gore;

And foon it found a living grave,

And, ah! was feen no more.

Now hafte, now hafte, ye maids, I pray,
Fetch water from the fpring:

She falls, the fwoons, the dies away,
And foon her knell they ring.

Now each May-morning round her tomb,
Ye fair, fresh flowrets ftrew;

So may your lovers fcape his doom,
Her haplefs fate scape you!

Although the English are remarkable for the number and variety of their ancient ballads, and retain perhaps a greater fondness for thefe old fimple rhapfodies of their ancestors then most other nations, they are not the only people who have diftinguished themfelves by corpofitions of this kind. The Spaniards have great multitudes of them, many of which are of the highest merit. They call them in their las guage Romances. Moft of them relate to their conflicts with the Moors, and difplay a spirit of gallantry peculiar to that romantic people. The two following are fpecimens.

GENTLE river, gentle river,

Lo, thy streams are ftain'd with gore;
Many a brave and noble captain
Floats along thy willow'd shore.
All befide thy limpid waters,

All befide thy fands fo bright,
Moorish Chiefs and Chriftian Warriors
Join'd in fierce and mortal fight.
Lords, and dukes, and noble princes,
On thy fatal banks were flain:
Fatal banks, that gave to flaughter
All the pride and flow'r of Spain.
There the hero, brave Alonzo,

Full of wounds and glory died;
There the fearlefs Urdiales

Fell a victim by his fide.

Lo! where yonder Don Saavedra
Thro' their fquadrons flow retires;
Proud Seville, his native city,
Proud Seville his worth admires.

Clofe

Close behind a renegado

Loudly fhouts, with taunting cry:
Yield thee, yield thee, Don Saavedra;
Doit thou from the battle fly?
Well I know thee, haughty Christian,
Long I liv'd beneath thy roof;
Oft I've in the lifts of glory
Seen thee win the prize of proof.
Well I know thy aged parents,
Well thy blooming bride I know;
Seven years I was thy captive,

Seven years of pain and woe.
May our prophet grant my wifhes,
Haughty chief, thou shalt be mine :
Thou shalt drink that cup of forrow
Which I drank when I was thine.
Like a lion turns the warrior,

Back he fends an angry glare:
Whizzing came the Moorish javelin,
Vainly whizzing thro' the air.
Back the hero full of fury

Sent a deep and mortal wound: Inftant funk the renegado

Mute and lifeless on the ground. With a thousand Moors furrounded, Brave Saavedra stands at bay : Wearied out, but never daunted, Cold at length the warrior lay. Near him fighting, great Alonzo Stout refifts the Paynim bands; From his flaughter'd fteed difmounted Firm intrench'd behind him ftands. Furious prefs the hoftile fquadron,

Furious he repels their rage: Lofs of blood at length enfeebles: Who can war with thousands wage! Where yon rock the plain o'erfhadows, Clofe beneath its foot retir'd, Fainting funk the bleeding hero, And without a groan expir'd.

pure:

Yonder walks the Moor Alcanzor,
Shunning ev'ry glare of light.
In yon palace lives fair Zaida,
Whom he loves with flame fo
Lovelieft the of Moorish ladies,
He a young and noble Moor.
Waiting for th' appointed minute,
Oft he paces to and fro:
Stopping now, now moving forwards,
Sometimes quick, and fometimes flow.
Hope and fear alternate teafe him,

Oft he fighs with heart-felt care.
See, fond youth, to yonder window
Softly fieps the tim'rous fair.

Lovely feems the moon's fair luftre
To the loft benighted fwain,
When all filvery bright she rifes,
Gilding mountain, grove, and plain:
Lovely feems the fun's full glory
To the fainting feaman's eyes,
When fome horrid ftorm difperfing,
O'er the wave his radiance flies:
But a thousand times more lovely
To her longing lover's fight
Steals half-feen the beauteous inaiden
Thro' the glimmerings of the night.
Tip-toe ftands the anxious lover,
Whispering forth a gentle figh:
Alla keep thee, lovely lady;
Tell me, am I doom'd to die?
Is it true the dreadful story,
Which thy damfel tells my page,
That, feduc'd by fordid riches,
Thou wilt fell thy bloom to age?
An old lord from Antiquera

Thy ftern father brings along;
But canft thou, inconftant Zaida,'
Thus confent my love to wrong?
If 'tis true, now plainly tell me,
Nor thus trifle with my woes;
Hide not then from me the fecret,
Which the world fo clearly knows.
Deeply figh'd the confcious maiden,
While the pearly tears defcend:
Ah! my lord, too true the ftory;

Here our tender loves must end.
Our fond friendship is difcover'd,
Well are known our mutual vows;
All my friends are full of fury,

Storms of paflion fhake the houfe.
Threats, reproaches, fears furround me;
My ftern father breaks my heart;
Alla knows how dear it cofts me,
Gen'rous youth, from thee to part.
Ancient wounds of hoftile fury

Long have rent our houfe and thine;
| Why then did thy fhining merit
Win this tender heart of mine?
Well thou know'ft how dear I lov'd thee,
Spite of all their hateful pride,
Tho' I fear'd my haughty father
Ne'er would let me be thy bride.
Well thou know't what cruel chidings
Oft I've from my mother borne,
What I've fuffer'd here to meet thee
Still at eve and early morn.

I no longer may resist them;
All to force my hand combine;
And to-morrow to thy rival

This weak frame Í must resign.
Yet think not thy faithful Zaida

Can furvive fo great a wrong; Well my breaking heart affures me That my woes will not be long.

Farewel