'Tis long of me, your sad and woful mother dear, For whose sake you must be slain.

Had I been born of royal race,
You might have lived in happy case;

66

But now you must die for my unworthiness.

'Come, messenger of death," quoth she,

"Take my despised babes to thee,

And to their father my complaints express."

He took the children, and to his noble master
He brought them forth with speed;

Who secretly sent them unto a noble lady,
To be nurst up indeed.

Then to fair Grissel with a heavy heart he goes,
Where she sat mildly all alone;

A pleasant gesture and a lovely look she shows, As if grief she had never known.

Quoth he, "My children now are slain;

What thinks fair Grissel of the same?

Sweet Grissel, now declare thy mind to me." "Since you, my lord, are pleas'd with it, Poor Grissel thinks the action fit;

Both I and mine at your command will be."

"The nobles murmur, fair Grissel, at thine honcur, And I no joy can have

Till thou be banisht from my court and presence, As they unjustly crave.

Thou must be stript out of thy stately garments;

And as thou camest to me,

In homely gray, instead of silk and purest pall,
Now all thy cloathing must be.

My lady thou must be no more,

Nor I thy lord, which grieves me sore;

The poorest life must now content thy mind:

A groat to thee I may not give,

Thee to maintain, while I do live;

'Gainst my Grissel such great foes I find."

When gentle Grissel heard these woful tidings,
The tears stood in her eyes ;

She nothing said, no words of discontentment
Did from her lips arise.

Her velvet gown most patiently she stript off,

Her girdle of silk with the same ;

Her russet gown was brought again with many a scoff;

To bear them all, herself [she] did frame. When she was drest in this array,

And ready was to part away,

"God send long life unto my lord," quoth she

"Let no offence be found in this,

To give my lord a parting kiss."

With wat❜ry eyes," Farewel, my dear!" quoth he.

From stately palace, unto her father's cottage,

Poor Grissel now is gone;

Full fifteen winters she lived there contented,

No wrong she thought upon;

And at that time thro' all the land the speeches went,

The marquess should married be

Unto a noble lady of high descent,

And to the same all parties did agree.

The marquess sent for Grissel fair

The bride's bed-chamber to prepare,

That nothing should therein be found awry;

The bride was with her brother come,

Which was great joy to all and some;

And Grissel took all this most patiently.

And in the morning when that they should be wedded,

Her patience now was try'd;

Grissel was charged in princely manner

For to attire the bride.

Most willingly she gave consent unto the same

The bride in her bravery was drest,

And presently the noble marquess thither came,
With all the ladies at his request.

"Oh Grissel, I would ask of thee

If to this match thou wouldst agree?

Methinks thy looks are waxed wondrous coy."

With that they all began to smile,

And Grissel she replies the while,

"God send lord marquess many years of joy."

The marquis was moved to see his best beloved

Thus patient in distress;

He stept unto her, and by the hand he took her ;

These words he did express :

"Thou art the bride, and all the brides I mean to have;

These two thy own children be."

The youthful lady on her knees did blessing crave,

The brother as willing as she.

"And you that envy her estate,

Whom I have made my loving mate,

Now blush for shame and honour vertuous life;

The chronicles of lasting fame

Shall evermore extol the name

Of patient Grissel, my most constant wife."

COME TO THE MAY-POLE.

Reprinted from Westminster Droliery.

OME, lasses and lads, get leave of your dads,
And away to the May-pole hie,
For every fair has a sweetheart there,
And the fiddler's standing by.

For Willy shall dance with Jane,
And Johnny has got his Joan,
To trip it, trip it, trip it, trip it,
Trip it up and down.

Strike up, says Watt: agreed, says Matt,
And I prithee, fiddler, play;

Content, says Hodge, and so says Madge,

For this is a holiday.

Then every lad did doff

His hat unto his lass,

And every girl did curtsey, curtsey,
Curtsey on the grass.

Begin, says Hal: aye, aye, says Mall,
We'll lead up Packington's Pound;
No, no, says Noll, and so says Doll,
We'll first have Sellinger's Round.
Then every man began

To foot it round about,

And every girl did jet it, jet it,
Jet it in and out.

You're out, says Dick-not I, says Nick, 'Twas the fiddler play'd it wrong;

"Tis true, says Hugh, and so says Sue,

And so says every one.

The fiddler then began

To play the tune again,