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The English National Anthem (which, as a merely literary production, is hardly entitled to notice) is generally attributed to Dr. John Bull (1591), professor of music, Oxford, and chamber musician to James I. Henry Carey's son claimed it as the production of his father, whose granddaughter, Alice Carey, was the mother of Edmund Kean, the actor. The germ of the song is to be found in one which Sir Peter Carew used to sing before Henry VIII-Chorus:

"And I said, Good Lord, defend

England with thy most holy hand,
And save noble Henry our King."

God save our gracions King!
Long live our noble King!

God save the King!
Send him victorious,
Happy and glorious,
Long to reign over us!
God save the King!

O Lord our God, arise!
Scatter his enemies,

And make them fall;
Confound their politics,
Frustrate their knavish tricks:
On him our hopes we fix-
God save us all!

WINIFREDA.

This poem Bishop Percy believes to have been first printed in a volume of "Miscellaneous Poems by Different Hands," by David Lewis (1726). The authorship, though much discussed, is as yet unknown.

Away! let naught to love displeasing,
My Winifreda, move your care;
Let naught delay the heavenly blessing,
Nor squeamish pride nor gloomy fear.

What though no grants of royal donors

With pompous title grace our blood? We'll shine in more substantial honors, And to be noble we'll be good.

Our name, while virtue thus we tender, Will sweetly sound where'er 'tis spoke; And all the great ones they shall wonder How they respect such little folk.

What though from Fortune's lavish bounty
No mighty treasures we possess?
We'll find within our pittance plenty,
And be content without excess.

Still shall each kind returning season
Sufficient for our wishes give;
For we will live a life of reason,

And that's the only life to live.

Through youth and age in love excelling,
We'll hand-in-hand together tread;
Sweet smiling peace shall crown our dwelling,
And babes, sweet smiling babes, our bed.

How should I love the pretty creatures,
While round my knees they fondly clung,
To see them look their mother's features,
To hear them lisp their mother's tongue!

And when with envy Time transported Shall think to rob us of our joys, You'll in your girls again be courted, And I'll go wooing in my boys.

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OUR GUDE-MAN.

In this humorous ballad, the wife hides a rebel relative in the house, and endeavors to guard her husband's loyalty at the expense of her own veracity, and the "gude-man's" sense of sight.

Our gude-man cam' hame at e'en,

And hame cam' he;

And there he saw a saddle-horse,

Whaur nae horse should be.
"Oh, how cam' this horse here,
How can this be?

How cam' this horse here,
Without the leave o' me ?"
"A horse!" quo' she.
"Ay, a horse," quo' he.
"Ye auld blind doited carle,
Blinder mat ye be!

'Tis naething but a milk coy
My minnie sent to me."

"A milk cow!" quo' he.
"Ay, a milk cow," quo' she.

"Far ha'e I ridden,

And meikle ha'e I seeu;
But a saddle on a cow's back
Saw I never nane!"

Our gude-man cam' hame at e'en, And hame cam' he;

He spied a pair o' jack-boots,

Whaur nae boots should be. "What's this now, gude-wife? What's this I see?

How cam' these boots here,
Without the leave o' me ?"
"Boots" quo' she.
"Ay, boots," quo' he.
"Shame fa' your cuckold face,
And ill mat ye see!
It's but a pair o' water-stoups
The cooper sent to me."

"Water-stoups!" quo' he.
"Ay, water-stoups," quo' she.

"Far ha'e I ridden,

And far'er ha'e I gane; But siller spurs on water-stoups Saw I never nane!"

Our gude-man cam' hame at e'en,

And hame cam' he;

And there he saw a sword,

Whaur nae sword should be. "What's this now, gude-wife! What's this I see?

Oh, how cam' this sword here, Without the leave o' me?" "A sword!" quo' she. "Ay, a sword," quo' he. "Shame fa' your cuckold face,

And ill mat ye see! It's but a parritch spurtle' My minnie sent to me." "A spurtle" quo' he. "Ay, a spurtle," quo' she. "Weel, far ha'e I ridden, And meikle ha'e I seen; But siller-handled spurtles Saw I never nane!"

Our gude-man cam' hame at e'en,
And hame cam' he;

There he spied a pouthered wig,
Whaur nae wig should be.
"What's this now, gude-wife?
What's this I see?

How cam' this wig here,
Without the leave o' me ?"

"A wig!" quo' she.

"Ay, a wig," quo' he.

"Shame fa' your cuckold face,

And ill mat ye see!

'Tis naething but a clockin' hen My minnie sent to me."

"A clockin' hen!" quo' he. "Ay, a clockin' hen," quo' she. "Far ha'e I ridden,

And meikle ha'e I seen;
But pouther on a clockin' hen
Saw I never nane!"

Our gude-man cam' hame at e'en, And hame cam' he;

And there he saw a riding-coat, Whaur nae coat should be. "Oh, how cam' this coat here?

How can this be?

How cam' this coat here,
Without the leave o' me ?"
"A coat!" quo' she.
"Ay, a coat," quo' he.
"Ye auld blind dotard carle,

Blinder mat yo be!

It's but a pair o' blankets
My minnie sent to me."

1 A stick for stirring porridge.

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