FAIR MARGARET AND SWEET WILLIAM.

THIS ballad is another tribute to the indefatigable industry of Dr. Percy, and to his admirable taste and skill. He picked up a copy of it at an old book-stall, modernised, and published it in his "Reliques."` Devoid of any historical interest, and of doubtful antiquity, the simplicity and pathos of this ballad The original title have given to it a great popularity. It has been imitated under several names. is "Fair Margaret's Misfortunes; or Sweet William's Frightful Dreams on his Wedding Night, with the Sudden Death and Burial of those Noble Lovers."

THE BIRTH OF ST. GEORGE.

THE incidents of this tale of the birth of the patron Saint of Merry England are derived from the Seven Champions of Christendom, once a history in high repute, though now only to be found in the Nursery Library. The author is undoubtedly Dr. Percy himself, who, in publishing the ballad, confesses that it is for the most part modern.

Then fast he travels back;

No chearful gleams here pierced the gloom, Eager to clasp his lovely dame,
He hears no chearful sound;
But shrill night-ravens' yelling scream,
And serpents hissing round.

The shriek of fiends and damned ghosts
Ran howling through his ear:
A chilling horror froze his heart,

Though all unused to fear.

Three times he strives to win his way,

And pierce those sickly dews:
Three times to bear his trembling corse

His knocking knees refuse.

At length upon his beating breast

He signs the holy crosse;
And, rouzing up his wonted might,
He treads th' unhallowed mosse.

Beneath a pendant craggy cliff,

All vaulted like a grave, And opening in the solid rock,,

He found the inchanted cave.

An iron gate closed up the mouth,
All hideous and forlorne;
And, fastened by a silver chain,
Near hung a brazed horne.

Then offering up a secret prayer,

Three times he blowes amaine; Three times a deepe and hollow sound

Did answer him againe.

'Sir Knight, thy lady beares a son,

Who, like a dragon bright,
Shall prove most dreadful to his foes,
And terrible in fight.

His name, advanced in future times,

On banners shall be worn:
But, lo! thy lady's life must passe

Before he can be born.'

All sore opprest with fear and doubt

Long time Lord Albert stood;
At length he winds his doubtful way
Back through the dreary wood.

But when he reached his castle gate,
His gate was hung with black.

In every court and hall he found
A sullen silence reigne;
Save where, amid the lonely towers,
He heard her maiden's plaine;

And bitterly lament and weep,

With many a grievous grone; Then sore his bleeding heart misgave, His lady's life was gone.

With faltering step he enters in,
Yet half afraid to goe;

With trembling voice asks why they grieve,
Yet fears the cause to knowe.

Three times the sun hath rose and set,'

They said, then stopt to weep, 'Since heaven hath laid thy lady deare In death's eternal sleep.

For, ah! in travail sore she fell,

So sore that she must dye;
Unless some shrewd and cunning leech
Could ease her presentlye.

But when a cunning leech was fet,
Too soon declaréd he,

She, or her babe must lose its life;
Both savéd could not be.

Now take my life, the lady said;
My little infant save:
And O! commend me to my lord,
When I am laid in grave.

O! tell him how that precious babe
Cost him a tender wife;
And teach my son to lisp her name,
Who died to save his life.

Then calling still upon thy came,
And praying still for thee,
Without repining or complaint,
Her gentle soul did flee.'