BALLADS AND PASTORAL SON G. S. T was a friar of orders IT Walk'd forth to tell his beads ; And he met with a lady fair, Clad in a pilgrim's weeds. Now *IN the Reliques of antient English poetry Dr. Percy gives us the following ballad, as formed upon a number of detached fragments of antient compofition, which he has attempted to fill up and throw into a little connected tale. Though his modesty has induced him to place it among his antique remains, I think it but juftice to him and to my own collection to place it here as a very judicious and beau tiful imitation of the atnient ballad; for certainly he has the best right to it, fince the merit of the ftory is all his own, and the difficulty of interweaving the few antient ftanzas into it, and fuiting his own language to them with fuch judgment, was greater than that of producing an en tirely new piece. Now Chrift thee fave, thou reverend friar, I pray thee tell to me, If ever at yon holy shrine My true love thou did'ft fee. And how fhould I know your true love From many another one? O by his cockle hat and staff, But chiefly by his face and mien, His flaxen locks that sweetly curl'd, O lady he's dead and gone! Within these holy cloysters long Here Here bore him barefac'd on his bier And art thou dead, thou gentle youth! And did'st thou die for love of me! O weep not, lady, weep not fo; O do not, do not, holy friar, And now, alas! for thy fad lofs For thee I only wish'd to live, For thee I wish to die. Weep Weep no more, lady, weep no more, Thy forrow is in vain : For, violets pluck'd the fweetest showers Will ne'er make grow again. Our joys as winged dreams do fly, O fay not fo, thou holy friar; For fince my true-love died for me, And will he ne'er come again? Will he ne'er come again? Ah! no, he is dead and laid in his grave, For ever to remain. His cheek was redder than the rofe, But he is dead and laid in his grave: Alas! and woe is me! Sigh no more, lady, figh no more, One foot on fea and one on land, Had'ft thou been fond, he had been falfe, For young men ever were fickle found, Since fummer trees were leafy. Now fay not fo, thou holy friar, My love he had the trueft heart: O he was ever true! And art thou dead, thou much-lov'd youth, And didft thou die for me? Then farewel home; for, ever-more A pilgrim I will be. But firft upon my true-love's grave My weary limbs I'll lay, And thrice I'll kiss the green-grafs turf, That wraps his breathlefs clay. Yet |