"Oh! the lady Alice so lovely fair,

Alas! is dead and gone!

And at her head is a green-grass turf,
And at her heels a stone.

"The lady Alice is dead and gone,
She sleeps on the Kirk-hill side;
And all for love of thee, O Prince!
That beauteous lady died.

"And where she 's laid the green turf grows, And a cold grave-stone is there,

But the dew-clad turf, nor the cold, cold stone, Is not so cold as her."

Oh! then Prince Henry sad did sigh,

His heart all full of woe:

That hapless Prince he beat his breast,
And his tears began to flow.

"And art thou gone, iny sweet Alice!
And art thou gone? (he cried):
Ah! would to Heaven that I with thee,
My faithful love, had died.

1

"And have I lost thee, my sweet Alice!

And art thou dead and gone?

And at thy dear head a green grass turf,

And at thy feet a stone!

"The turf that's o'er thy grave, dear Alice!

Shall with my tears be wet;

And the stone at thy feet shall melt, love!

E'er I will thee forget."

And when the news came to merry England,

Of the battle in the North;

O then King Stephen and his nobles

So merrily marched forth:

And they have had justs and tournaments,
And have feasted o'er and o'er,

And merrily, merrily have they rejoiced,

For the victory of Cuton-Moor.

But many a sigh adds to the wind,
And many a tear to the shower,
And many a bleeding heart hath broke,
For the battle of Cuton-Moor!

And many 's the widow all forlorn,
And helpless orphan poor,
And many 's the maiden that shall rue
The victory of Cuton-Moor.

The Lady Alice is laid full low,

And her maidens' tears do pour;

And many 's the wretch with them shall weep,
For the victory of Cuton-Moor.

The holy priest doth weep, as he sings

His masses o'er and o'er;

And all for the souls of them that were slain,

EVANS.

At the battle of Cuton-Moor!

COLIN AND LUCY:

A Pastoral Ballad.

BY THOMAS TICKELL.

OF Leinster, famed for maidens fair,
Bright Lucy was the grace;
Nor e'er did Liffey's limpid stream
Reflect so sweet a face:

Till luckless love and pining care
Impaired her rosy hue,
Her dainty lip, her damask cheek,
And eyes of glossy blue.

Ah! have you seen a lily pale,
When beating rains descend?-
So drooped this slow-consuming maid,
Her life now near its end!

By Lucy warned, of flattering swains

Take heed, ye easy

fair:

Of vengeance due to broken vows,

Ye flattering swains beware.

* "To Tickell cannot be refused a high place among the minor poets.”JOHNSON. Vide Spectator, No. 620, for a poem of his. He was the intimate friend and secretary of Addison, and died in 1740.

Three times, all in the dead of night,
A bell was heard to ring;

And at her window shrieking thrice,

The raven flapp'd its wing.

Too well the love-lorn maiden knew
The solemn boding sound;
And thus in dying words bespoke,
The virgins weeping round.

"I hear a voice you cannot hear,
That cries, I must not stay,-

I see a hand you cannot see,
That beckons me away.

"Of a false swain and broken heart, In early youth I die;

Am I to blame, because the bride

Is twice as rich as I?

"Ah! Colin, give not her thy vows,

Vows due to me alone;

Nor thou, fond maid, receive his kiss,
Nor think him all thy own.

"To-morrow, in the Church to wed

Impatient both prepare ;

But know, false man! and know, fond maid, Poor Lucy will be there.

"Then, bear my corse, ye comrades dear,
The bridegroom blithe to meet ;-

He, in his wedding trim so gay,
I, in my winding sheet."

She spoke—she died; her corse was borne

The bridegroom blithe to meet,—

He in his wedding trim so gay,

She in her winding-sheet.

Q

What then were perjured Colin's thoughts?-
How were those nuptials kept?
The bridesmen flock round Lucy dead,
And all the village wept.

Compassion-shame-remorse-
At once his bosom swell;

despair,

The damps of death bedewed his brow, - he groaned -he fell.

He shook

--

From the vain bride (ah! bride no more!)
The varying crimson fled,

When, stretched beside her rival's corse,
She saw her lover dead.

He to his Lucy's new-made grave,
Conveyed by trembling swains,
In the same mould, beneath one sod,
For ever now remains.

Oft at this place the constant hind,
And plighted maid are seen,
With garlands gay, and true-love knots,
They deck the sacred green.

But swain forsworn, whoe'er thou art,
This hallowed ground forbear;
Remember Colin's dreadful fate,
And fear to meet him there!