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WAS at the filent, folemn hour,

When night and morning meet ;
In glided MARGARET's grimly ghot,

And stood at WILLIAM's feet.

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So fall the faireít face appear,

When youth and years are flown :
Such is the robe that kings must wear,

When death has reft their crown).

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Her bloom was like a fpringing flower',

That fips the filver dew;
The role was budded in her cheek,

Just opening to the view.

But Love, had like the canker-worm,

Consum'd her early prime :
The rose grew pale, and left her cheek ;

She'dy'd before her time.

Awake! the cry'd, thy true Love calls,

Come from her midnight grave;
Now let thy Pity hear the maid,

Thy Love refus'd to fave.

This is the dumb and dreary hour,

When injur'd ghosts complain ;
When yawning graves give up their dead,

To haunt the faithlefs swain.

Bethink thee, William, of thy fault,

Thy pledge and broken oath :
And give me back my maiden-vow

And give me back my

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Why did you promife love to me,

And not that promise keep?
Why did


my eyes were bright, Yet leave those eyes to weep?

How could you say my face was fair,

yet that face forsake ?
How could you win my virgin heart,

Yet leave that heart to break ?

Why did you say my lip was sweet,

And made the scarlet pale?
And why did I, young witless maid !

Believe the flattering tale?

That face, alas ! no more is fair ;

Thofe lips no longer red :
Dark are my eyes, now clos'd in death,

And every charm is fled.

The hungry worm my sister is ;

This winding sheet I wear :
And cold and weary lasts our night,

Till that last morn appear.

But hark! the cock has warn'd me hence ;

A long and late adieu !
Come, fee, false man, how low she lies,

Who dy'd for love of you.


The lark fung loud ; the morning smild,

With beams of rosy red :
Pale William quak'd in every limb,

And raving left his bed.

XVI. He hy'd him to the fatal place

Where Margaret's body lay : And stretch'd him on the green grass turf,

That wrap'd her breathless clay.

XVII. And thrice he callid on Margaret's name,

And thrice he wept full sore : Then laid his cheek to her cold

grave, And word spoke never more !

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On the publication of this ballad, in the year 1760, Mr. Mallet subjoined an attestation of the truth of the facts re·lated in it, which we shall give the reader literally :

Extract of a letter from the curate of Bowes in YorkJhire, on the subject of the preceding poem, to Mr. Copperthwaite at Marrick.

" Worthy fir, " As to the affair mentioned in yours; it happened long os before my time. I have therefore been obliged to consult " my clerk, and another perfon in the neighbourhood for of the truth of that melancholy event. The history of it is

as follows:

The family-name of the young man was Wrightson;

of the young maiden Railton. They were both much of the same age; that is growing up to twenty. In their " birth was no difparity; but in fortune, alas! she was

r his inferior. His father, a hard old man, who had by « his toil acquired a handsome competency, expected and re

quired that his fon shoulil marry suitably. But, as amor vincit omnia, his heart was unalterably fixed on the

pretty young creature already named. Their courtship, " which was all by stealth, unknown to the family, continued about a year. When it was found out, old Wright"fon, his wife, and particularly their crooked daughter Harinah, Aouted at the maiden, and treated her with notable contempt : for they held it as a maxim, and a rustic one it is, that blood was nothing without groats.

66 The

young lover fickened, and took to his bed about Shrode-tuesday, and died the Sunday sevennight after.

« On the last day of his illness, he desired to see his mifar tress: fise was civily received by the mother, who bid " ber welcome--when it was too late. But her daughter Hannah lay at his back to cut them off from all opportunity of exchanging their thoughts.

" At her return home, on hearing the bell to toll out for his departure, the screamed aloud that her heart was

burst, and expired fome moments after.

" The then curate of * Bowes inserted it in his register, so that they both died of love, and were buried in the same grave, March 15, 1714.

- Dear fir,

Yours, &C.

I am,

* Bowes is a small village in Yorkshire, where in former ages the earls of Richmond had a castle. It stands on the edge of that vast and mountanious tract, named by the neighbouring people Stanemore ; which is always exposed to wind and weather, defolate and folitary throughout. Camd. Brit.

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