Toll for the Brave!The brave that are no more!All sunk beneath the waveFast by their native shore!Eight hundred of the brave,Whose courage well was tried,Had made the vessel heelAnd laid her on her side.A land-breeze shook the shrouds,And she was overset;Down went theRoyal GeorgeWith all her crew complete.Toll for the brave!Brave Kempenfelt is gone;His last sea-fight is fought,His work of glory done.It was not in the battle;No tempest gave the shock,She sprang no fatal leak,She ran upon no rock.His sword was in its sheath,His fingers held the pen,When Kempenfelt went downWith twice four hundred men.Weigh the vessel up,Once dreaded by our foes!And mingle with our cupThe tear that England owes.Her timbers yet are sound,And she may float againFull charged with England's thunder,And plough the distant main:But Kempenfelt is gone,His victories are o'er;And he and his eight hundredShall plough the wave no more.
Toll for the Brave!The brave that are no more!All sunk beneath the waveFast by their native shore!
Eight hundred of the brave,Whose courage well was tried,Had made the vessel heelAnd laid her on her side.
A land-breeze shook the shrouds,And she was overset;Down went theRoyal GeorgeWith all her crew complete.
Toll for the brave!Brave Kempenfelt is gone;His last sea-fight is fought,His work of glory done.
It was not in the battle;No tempest gave the shock,She sprang no fatal leak,She ran upon no rock.
His sword was in its sheath,His fingers held the pen,When Kempenfelt went downWith twice four hundred men.
Weigh the vessel up,Once dreaded by our foes!And mingle with our cupThe tear that England owes.
Her timbers yet are sound,And she may float againFull charged with England's thunder,And plough the distant main:
But Kempenfelt is gone,His victories are o'er;And he and his eight hundredShall plough the wave no more.
When the British warrior queen,Bleeding from the Roman rods,Sought, with an indignant mien,Counsel of her country's gods,Sage beneath the spreading oakSat the Druid, hoary chief;Every burning word he spokeFull of rage, and full of grief.'Princess, if our aged eyesWeep upon thy matchless wrongs,'Tis because resentment tiesAll the terrors of our tongues.'Rome shall perish—write that wordIn the blood that she has spilt;Perish, hopeless and abhorr'd,Deep in ruin as in guilt.'Rome, for empire far renown'd,Tramples on a thousand states;Soon her pride shall kiss the ground—Hark! the Gaul is at her gates!'Other Romans shall arise,Heedless of a soldier's name;Sounds, not arms, shall win the prize,Harmony the path to fame.'Then the progeny that springsFrom the forests of our land,Arm'd with thunder, clad with wings,Shall a wider world command.'Regions Cæsar never knewThy posterity shall sway;Where his eagles never flew,None invincible as they.'Such the bard's prophetic words,Pregnant with celestial fire,Bending as he swept the chordsOf his sweet but awful lyre.She, with all a monarch's pride,Felt them in her bosom glow;Rush'd to battle, fought, and died;Dying hurl'd them at the foe.'Ruffians, pitiless as proud,Heaven awards the vengeance due;Empire is on us bestow'd,Shame and ruin wait for you.'
When the British warrior queen,Bleeding from the Roman rods,Sought, with an indignant mien,Counsel of her country's gods,
Sage beneath the spreading oakSat the Druid, hoary chief;Every burning word he spokeFull of rage, and full of grief.
'Princess, if our aged eyesWeep upon thy matchless wrongs,'Tis because resentment tiesAll the terrors of our tongues.
'Rome shall perish—write that wordIn the blood that she has spilt;Perish, hopeless and abhorr'd,Deep in ruin as in guilt.
'Rome, for empire far renown'd,Tramples on a thousand states;Soon her pride shall kiss the ground—Hark! the Gaul is at her gates!
'Other Romans shall arise,Heedless of a soldier's name;Sounds, not arms, shall win the prize,Harmony the path to fame.
'Then the progeny that springsFrom the forests of our land,Arm'd with thunder, clad with wings,Shall a wider world command.
'Regions Cæsar never knewThy posterity shall sway;Where his eagles never flew,None invincible as they.'
Such the bard's prophetic words,Pregnant with celestial fire,Bending as he swept the chordsOf his sweet but awful lyre.
She, with all a monarch's pride,Felt them in her bosom glow;Rush'd to battle, fought, and died;Dying hurl'd them at the foe.
'Ruffians, pitiless as proud,Heaven awards the vengeance due;Empire is on us bestow'd,Shame and ruin wait for you.'
Come, cheer up, my lads, 'tis to glory we steer,To add something more to this wonderful year,To honour we call you, not press you like slaves,For who are so free as the sons of the waves?Hearts of oak are our ships, hearts of oak are our men,We always are ready,Steady, boys, steady,We'll fight and we'll conquer again and again.We ne'er see our foes but we wish them to stay,They never see us but they wish us away;If they run, why, we follow, and run them ashore,For if they won't fight us, we cannot do more.Hearts of oak are our ships, hearts of oak are our men,We always are ready,Steady, boys, steady,We'll fight and we'll conquer again and again.Still Britain shall triumph, her ships plough the sea,Her standard be justice, her watchword 'Be free';Then, cheer up, my lads, with one heart let us singOur soldiers, our sailors, our statesmen, our king.Hearts of oak are our ships, hearts of oak are our men,We always are ready,Steady, boys, steady,We'll fight and we'll conquer again and again.
Come, cheer up, my lads, 'tis to glory we steer,To add something more to this wonderful year,To honour we call you, not press you like slaves,For who are so free as the sons of the waves?Hearts of oak are our ships, hearts of oak are our men,We always are ready,Steady, boys, steady,We'll fight and we'll conquer again and again.
We ne'er see our foes but we wish them to stay,They never see us but they wish us away;If they run, why, we follow, and run them ashore,For if they won't fight us, we cannot do more.Hearts of oak are our ships, hearts of oak are our men,We always are ready,Steady, boys, steady,We'll fight and we'll conquer again and again.
Still Britain shall triumph, her ships plough the sea,Her standard be justice, her watchword 'Be free';Then, cheer up, my lads, with one heart let us singOur soldiers, our sailors, our statesmen, our king.Hearts of oak are our ships, hearts of oak are our men,We always are ready,Steady, boys, steady,We'll fight and we'll conquer again and again.
Good people all, of every sort,Give ear unto my song;And if you find it wondrous short,It cannot hold you long.In Islington there was a man,Of whom the world might say,That still a godly race he ranWhene'er he went to pray.A kind and gentle heart he had,To comfort friends and foes;The naked every day he clad,When he put on his clothes.And in that town a dog was found,As many dogs there be,Both mongrel, puppy, whelp, and hound,And curs of low degree.This dog and man at first were friends;But when a pique began,The dog, to gain his private ends,Went mad, and bit the man.Around from all the neighbouring streetsThe wondering neighbours ran,And swore the dog had lost his wits,To bite so good a man.The wound it seem'd both sore and sadTo every Christian eye:And while they swore the dog was mad,They swore the man would die.But soon a wonder came to light,That show'd the rogues they lied,The man recover'd of the bite,The dog it was that died.
Good people all, of every sort,Give ear unto my song;And if you find it wondrous short,It cannot hold you long.
In Islington there was a man,Of whom the world might say,That still a godly race he ranWhene'er he went to pray.
A kind and gentle heart he had,To comfort friends and foes;The naked every day he clad,When he put on his clothes.
And in that town a dog was found,As many dogs there be,Both mongrel, puppy, whelp, and hound,And curs of low degree.
This dog and man at first were friends;But when a pique began,The dog, to gain his private ends,Went mad, and bit the man.
Around from all the neighbouring streetsThe wondering neighbours ran,And swore the dog had lost his wits,To bite so good a man.
The wound it seem'd both sore and sadTo every Christian eye:And while they swore the dog was mad,They swore the man would die.
But soon a wonder came to light,That show'd the rogues they lied,The man recover'd of the bite,The dog it was that died.
'Turn, gentle hermit of the dale,And guide my lonely way,To where yon taper cheers the valeWith hospitable ray.'For here forlorn and lost I tread,With fainting steps and slow;Where wilds immeasurably spread,Seem lengthening as I go.''Forbear, my son,' the hermit cries,'To tempt the dangerous gloom;For yonder phantom only fliesTo lure thee to thy doom.'Here, to the houseless child of want,My door is open still:And though my portion is but scant,I give it with goodwill.'Then turn to-night, and freely shareWhate'er my cell bestows;My rushy couch and frugal fare,My blessing and repose.'No flocks that range the valley free,To slaughter I condemn;Taught by that power that pities me,I learn to pity them.'But from the mountain's grassy side,A guiltless feast I bring;A script, with herbs and fruits supplied,And water from the spring.'Then, Pilgrim, turn, thy cares forego;All earth-born cares are wrong:Man wants but little here below,Nor wants that little long.'Soft as the dew from heaven descends,His gentle accents fell;The modest stranger lowly bends,And follows to the cell.Far in a wilderness obscure,The lonely mansion lay;A refuge to the neighbouring poor,And strangers led astray.No stores beneath its humble thatchRequired a master's care;The wicket, opening with a latch,Received the harmless pair.And now, when busy crowds retire,To take their evening rest,The hermit trimmed his little fire,And cheered his pensive guest;And spread his vegetable store,And gaily pressed and smiled;And, skilled in legendary lore,The lingering hours beguiled.Around, in sympathetic mirth,Its tricks the kitten tries;The cricket chirrups in the hearth,The crackling fagot flies.But nothing could a charm impart,To soothe the stranger's woe;For grief was heavy at his heart,And tears began to flow.His rising cares the hermit spied,With answering care opprest:'And whence, unhappy youth,' he cried,'The sorrows of thy breast?'From better habitations spurned,Reluctant dost thou rove?Or grieve for friendship unreturned,Or unregarded love?'Alas! the joys that fortune bringsAre trifling, and decay;And those who prize the paltry thingsMore trifling still than they.'And what is friendship but a name:A charm that lulls to sleep!A shade that follows wealth or fame,And leaves the wretch to weep!'And love is still an emptier sound,The modern fair-one's jest;On earth unseen, or only foundTo warm the turtle's nest.'For shame, fond youth, thy sorrows hush,And spurn the sex,' he said:But while he spoke, a rising blushHis love-lorn guest betrayed.Surprised he sees new beauties rise,Swift mantling to the view,Like colours o'er the morning skies,As bright, as transient too.The bashful look, the rising breast,Alternate spread alarms;The lovely stranger stands confestA maid in all her charms.'And ah! forgive a stranger rude,A wretch forlorn,' she cried,'Whose feet unhallowed thus intrudeWhere heaven and you reside.'But let a maid thy pity share,Whom love has taught to stray:Who seeks for rest, but finds despairCompanion of her way.'My father lived beside the Tyne,A wealthy lord was he;And all his wealth was marked as mine;He had but only me.'To win me from his tender arms,Unnumbered suitors came;Who praised me for imputed charms,And felt, or feigned, a flame.'Each hour a mercenary crowdWith richest proffers strove;Amongst the rest young Edwin bowed,But never talked of love.'In humblest, simplest habit clad,No wealth nor power had he;Wisdom and worth were all he had;But these were all to me.'The blossom opening to the day,The dews of heaven refined,Could nought of purity display,To emulate his mind.'The dew, the blossoms of the tree,With charms inconstant shine;Their charms were his; but, woe to me,Their constancy was mine.'For still I tried each fickle art,Importunate and vain;And while his passion touched my heart,I triumphed in his pain.'Till quite dejected with my scorn,He left me to my pride;And sought a solitude forlorn,In secret, where he died!'But mine the sorrow, mine the fault,And well my life shall pay:I'll seek the solitude he sought,And stretch me where he lay.'And there, forlorn, despairing, hid,I'll lay me down and die:'Twas so for me that Edwin did,And so for him will I.''Forbid it, Heaven!' the hermit cried,And clasped her to his breast:The wondering fair one turned to chide:'Twas Edwin's self that prest!'Turn, Angelina, ever dear,My charmer, turn to seeThy own, thy long-lost Edwin here,Restored to love and thee.'Thus let me hold thee to my heart,And every care resign;And shall we never, never part,My life—my all that's mine?'No, never from this hour to part,We'll live and love so true;The sigh that rends thy constant heart,Shall break thy Edwin's too.'
'Turn, gentle hermit of the dale,And guide my lonely way,To where yon taper cheers the valeWith hospitable ray.
'For here forlorn and lost I tread,With fainting steps and slow;Where wilds immeasurably spread,Seem lengthening as I go.'
'Forbear, my son,' the hermit cries,'To tempt the dangerous gloom;For yonder phantom only fliesTo lure thee to thy doom.
'Here, to the houseless child of want,My door is open still:And though my portion is but scant,I give it with goodwill.
'Then turn to-night, and freely shareWhate'er my cell bestows;My rushy couch and frugal fare,My blessing and repose.
'No flocks that range the valley free,To slaughter I condemn;Taught by that power that pities me,I learn to pity them.
'But from the mountain's grassy side,A guiltless feast I bring;A script, with herbs and fruits supplied,And water from the spring.
'Then, Pilgrim, turn, thy cares forego;All earth-born cares are wrong:Man wants but little here below,Nor wants that little long.'
Soft as the dew from heaven descends,His gentle accents fell;The modest stranger lowly bends,And follows to the cell.
Far in a wilderness obscure,The lonely mansion lay;A refuge to the neighbouring poor,And strangers led astray.
No stores beneath its humble thatchRequired a master's care;The wicket, opening with a latch,Received the harmless pair.
And now, when busy crowds retire,To take their evening rest,The hermit trimmed his little fire,And cheered his pensive guest;
And spread his vegetable store,And gaily pressed and smiled;And, skilled in legendary lore,The lingering hours beguiled.
Around, in sympathetic mirth,Its tricks the kitten tries;The cricket chirrups in the hearth,The crackling fagot flies.
But nothing could a charm impart,To soothe the stranger's woe;For grief was heavy at his heart,And tears began to flow.
His rising cares the hermit spied,With answering care opprest:'And whence, unhappy youth,' he cried,'The sorrows of thy breast?
'From better habitations spurned,Reluctant dost thou rove?Or grieve for friendship unreturned,Or unregarded love?
'Alas! the joys that fortune bringsAre trifling, and decay;And those who prize the paltry thingsMore trifling still than they.
'And what is friendship but a name:A charm that lulls to sleep!A shade that follows wealth or fame,And leaves the wretch to weep!
'And love is still an emptier sound,The modern fair-one's jest;On earth unseen, or only foundTo warm the turtle's nest.
'For shame, fond youth, thy sorrows hush,And spurn the sex,' he said:But while he spoke, a rising blushHis love-lorn guest betrayed.
Surprised he sees new beauties rise,Swift mantling to the view,Like colours o'er the morning skies,As bright, as transient too.
The bashful look, the rising breast,Alternate spread alarms;The lovely stranger stands confestA maid in all her charms.
'And ah! forgive a stranger rude,A wretch forlorn,' she cried,'Whose feet unhallowed thus intrudeWhere heaven and you reside.
'But let a maid thy pity share,Whom love has taught to stray:Who seeks for rest, but finds despairCompanion of her way.
'My father lived beside the Tyne,A wealthy lord was he;And all his wealth was marked as mine;He had but only me.
'To win me from his tender arms,Unnumbered suitors came;Who praised me for imputed charms,And felt, or feigned, a flame.
'Each hour a mercenary crowdWith richest proffers strove;Amongst the rest young Edwin bowed,But never talked of love.
'In humblest, simplest habit clad,No wealth nor power had he;Wisdom and worth were all he had;But these were all to me.
'The blossom opening to the day,The dews of heaven refined,Could nought of purity display,To emulate his mind.
'The dew, the blossoms of the tree,With charms inconstant shine;Their charms were his; but, woe to me,Their constancy was mine.
'For still I tried each fickle art,Importunate and vain;And while his passion touched my heart,I triumphed in his pain.
'Till quite dejected with my scorn,He left me to my pride;And sought a solitude forlorn,In secret, where he died!
'But mine the sorrow, mine the fault,And well my life shall pay:I'll seek the solitude he sought,And stretch me where he lay.
'And there, forlorn, despairing, hid,I'll lay me down and die:'Twas so for me that Edwin did,And so for him will I.'
'Forbid it, Heaven!' the hermit cried,And clasped her to his breast:The wondering fair one turned to chide:'Twas Edwin's self that prest!
'Turn, Angelina, ever dear,My charmer, turn to seeThy own, thy long-lost Edwin here,Restored to love and thee.
'Thus let me hold thee to my heart,And every care resign;And shall we never, never part,My life—my all that's mine?
'No, never from this hour to part,We'll live and love so true;The sigh that rends thy constant heart,Shall break thy Edwin's too.'
When the sheep are in the fauld, when the kye's come hame,And a' the weary warld to rest are gane,The waes o' my heart fa' in showers frae my e'e,Unkent by my gudeman, wha sleeps sound by me.Young Jamie lo'ed me weel, and sought me for his bride,But saving ae crown-piece he had naething beside;To make the crown a pound my Jamie gaed to sea,And the crown and the pound—they were baith for me.He hadna been gane a twelvemonth and a day,When my father brake his arm and the cow was stown away;My mither she fell sick—my Jamie was at sea,And Auld Robin Gray came a courting me.My father couldna work—my mither couldna spin—I toiled day and night, but their bread I couldna win;Auld Rob maintained them baith, and, wi' tears in his e'e,Said: 'Jeanie, O for their sakes, will ye no marry me?'My heart it said na, and I looked for Jamie back,But hard blew the winds, and his ship was a wrack,His ship was a wrack—why didna Jamie die,Or why am I spared to cry wae is me?My father urged me sair—my mither didna speak,But she looked in my face till my heart was like to break;They gied him my hand—my heart was in the sea—And so Robin Gray he was gudeman to me.I hadna been his wife a week but only four,When, mournfu' as I sat on the stane at my door,I saw my Jamie's ghaist, for I couldna think it heTill he said: 'I'm come hame, love, to marry thee!'Oh, sair sair did we greet, and mickle say of a',I gied him ae kiss, and bade him gang awa'—I wish that I were dead, but I'm na like to die,For, though my heart is broken, I'm but young, wae is me!I gang like a ghaist, and I carena much to spin,I darena think o' Jamie, for that wad be a sin,But I'll do my best a gude wife to be,For, oh! Robin Gray, he is kind to me.
When the sheep are in the fauld, when the kye's come hame,And a' the weary warld to rest are gane,The waes o' my heart fa' in showers frae my e'e,Unkent by my gudeman, wha sleeps sound by me.
Young Jamie lo'ed me weel, and sought me for his bride,But saving ae crown-piece he had naething beside;To make the crown a pound my Jamie gaed to sea,And the crown and the pound—they were baith for me.
He hadna been gane a twelvemonth and a day,When my father brake his arm and the cow was stown away;My mither she fell sick—my Jamie was at sea,And Auld Robin Gray came a courting me.
My father couldna work—my mither couldna spin—I toiled day and night, but their bread I couldna win;Auld Rob maintained them baith, and, wi' tears in his e'e,Said: 'Jeanie, O for their sakes, will ye no marry me?'
My heart it said na, and I looked for Jamie back,But hard blew the winds, and his ship was a wrack,His ship was a wrack—why didna Jamie die,Or why am I spared to cry wae is me?
My father urged me sair—my mither didna speak,But she looked in my face till my heart was like to break;They gied him my hand—my heart was in the sea—And so Robin Gray he was gudeman to me.
I hadna been his wife a week but only four,When, mournfu' as I sat on the stane at my door,I saw my Jamie's ghaist, for I couldna think it heTill he said: 'I'm come hame, love, to marry thee!'
Oh, sair sair did we greet, and mickle say of a',I gied him ae kiss, and bade him gang awa'—I wish that I were dead, but I'm na like to die,For, though my heart is broken, I'm but young, wae is me!
I gang like a ghaist, and I carena much to spin,I darena think o' Jamie, for that wad be a sin,But I'll do my best a gude wife to be,For, oh! Robin Gray, he is kind to me.
The bride cam' out o' the byre,And, oh, as she dighted her cheeks:'Sirs, I'm to be married the night,And have neither blankets nor sheets;Have neither blankets nor sheets,Nor scarce a coverlet too;The bride that has a' thing to borrow,Has e'en right muckle ado.'Woo'd, and married, and a',Married, and woo'd, and a'!And was she nae very weel off,That was woo'd, and married, and a'?Out spake the bride's father,As he cam' in frae the pleugh:'Oh, haud your tongue, my dochter,And ye'se get gear eneugh;The stirk stands i' the tether,And our braw bawsint yaud,Will carry ye hame your corn—What wad ye be at, ye jaud?'Out spake the bride's mither:'What deil needs a' this pride?I hadna a plack in my pouchThat night I was a bride;My gown was linsey-woolsey,And ne'er a sark ava;And ye hae ribbons and buskins,Mae than ane or twa.'Out spake the bride's brither,As he cam' in wi' the kye:'Poor Willie wad ne'er hae ta'en ye,Had he kent ye as weel as I;For ye're baith proud and saucy,And no for a poor man's wife;Gin I canna get a better,I'se ne'er tak ane i' my life.'
The bride cam' out o' the byre,And, oh, as she dighted her cheeks:'Sirs, I'm to be married the night,And have neither blankets nor sheets;Have neither blankets nor sheets,Nor scarce a coverlet too;The bride that has a' thing to borrow,Has e'en right muckle ado.'Woo'd, and married, and a',Married, and woo'd, and a'!And was she nae very weel off,That was woo'd, and married, and a'?
Out spake the bride's father,As he cam' in frae the pleugh:'Oh, haud your tongue, my dochter,And ye'se get gear eneugh;The stirk stands i' the tether,And our braw bawsint yaud,Will carry ye hame your corn—What wad ye be at, ye jaud?'
Out spake the bride's mither:'What deil needs a' this pride?I hadna a plack in my pouchThat night I was a bride;My gown was linsey-woolsey,And ne'er a sark ava;And ye hae ribbons and buskins,Mae than ane or twa.'
Out spake the bride's brither,As he cam' in wi' the kye:'Poor Willie wad ne'er hae ta'en ye,Had he kent ye as weel as I;For ye're baith proud and saucy,And no for a poor man's wife;Gin I canna get a better,I'se ne'er tak ane i' my life.'
Some talk of Alexander, and some of Hercules,Of Hector and Lysander, and such great names as these,But of all the world's great heroes, there's none that can compare,With a tow, row, row, row, row, row, to the British Grenadier!Those heroes of antiquity ne'er saw a cannon ball,Or knew the force of powder to slay their foes withal;But our brave boys do know it, and banish all their fears,Sing tow, row, row, row, row, row, for the British Grenadiers!Whene'er we are commanded to storm the palisades,Our leaders march with fuses, and we with hand grenades,We throw them from the glacis, about the enemies' ears,Sing tow, row, row, row, row, row, the British Grenadiers!And when the siege is over, we to the town repair,The townsmen cry, 'Hurrah, boys, here comes a Grenadier!Here come the Grenadiers, my boys, who know no doubts or fears!'Then sing, tow, row, row, row, row, row, the British Grenadiers!Then let us fill a bumper, and drink a health to thoseWho carry caps and pouches, and wear the loupèd clothes,May they and their commanders live happy all their years,With a tow, row, row, row, row, row, for the British Grenadiers!
Some talk of Alexander, and some of Hercules,Of Hector and Lysander, and such great names as these,But of all the world's great heroes, there's none that can compare,With a tow, row, row, row, row, row, to the British Grenadier!
Those heroes of antiquity ne'er saw a cannon ball,Or knew the force of powder to slay their foes withal;But our brave boys do know it, and banish all their fears,Sing tow, row, row, row, row, row, for the British Grenadiers!
Whene'er we are commanded to storm the palisades,Our leaders march with fuses, and we with hand grenades,We throw them from the glacis, about the enemies' ears,Sing tow, row, row, row, row, row, the British Grenadiers!
And when the siege is over, we to the town repair,The townsmen cry, 'Hurrah, boys, here comes a Grenadier!Here come the Grenadiers, my boys, who know no doubts or fears!'Then sing, tow, row, row, row, row, row, the British Grenadiers!
Then let us fill a bumper, and drink a health to thoseWho carry caps and pouches, and wear the loupèd clothes,May they and their commanders live happy all their years,With a tow, row, row, row, row, row, for the British Grenadiers!
Here's to the maiden of bashful fifteen;Now to the widow of fifty;Here's to the flaunting extravagant quean,And here's to the housewife that's thrifty.Let the toast pass,Drink to the lass,I'll warrant she'll proveAn excuse for the glass.Here's to the charmer whose dimples we prize,Now to the damsel with none, Sir,Here's to the girl with a pair of blue eyes,And now to the nymph with but one, Sir.Here's to the maid with a bosom of snow,Now to her that's as brown as a berry,Here's to the wife with a face full of woe,And now to the damsel that's merry.For let her be clumsy, or let her be slim,Young or ancient, I care not a feather,So fill up a bumper, nay, fill to the brim,And let us e'en toast 'em together,Let the toast pass,Drink to the lass,I'll warrant she'll proveAn excuse for the glass.
Here's to the maiden of bashful fifteen;Now to the widow of fifty;Here's to the flaunting extravagant quean,And here's to the housewife that's thrifty.Let the toast pass,Drink to the lass,I'll warrant she'll proveAn excuse for the glass.
Here's to the charmer whose dimples we prize,Now to the damsel with none, Sir,Here's to the girl with a pair of blue eyes,And now to the nymph with but one, Sir.
Here's to the maid with a bosom of snow,Now to her that's as brown as a berry,Here's to the wife with a face full of woe,And now to the damsel that's merry.
For let her be clumsy, or let her be slim,Young or ancient, I care not a feather,So fill up a bumper, nay, fill to the brim,And let us e'en toast 'em together,Let the toast pass,Drink to the lass,I'll warrant she'll proveAn excuse for the glass.
The feathered songster chanticleerHad wound his bugle-horn,And told the early villagerThe coming of the morn:King Edward saw the ruddy streaksOf light eclipse the gray,And heard the raven's croaking throat,Proclaim the fated day.'Thou 'rt right,' quoth he, 'for by the GodThat sits enthroned on high!Charles Bawdin, and his fellows twain,To-day shall surely die.'Then with a jug of nappy aleHis knights did on him wait;'Go tell the traitor, that to-dayHe leaves this mortal state.'Sir Canterlone then bended low,With heart brimful of woe;He journeyed to the castle-gate,And to Sir Charles did go.But when he came, his children twain,And eke his loving wife,With briny tears did wet the floor,For good Sir Charles's life.'O good Sir Charles,' said Canterlone,'Bad tidings I do bring.''Speak boldly, man,' said brave Sir Charles,'What says the traitor-king?''I grieve to tell: before yon sunDoes from the welkin fly,He hath upon his honour sworn,That thou shalt surely die.''We all must die,' said brave Sir Charles;'Of that I'm not afraid;What boots to live a little space?Thank Jesus, I'm prepared.'But tell thy king, for mine he's not,I'd sooner die to-day,Than live his slave, as many are,Though I should live for aye.'Then Canterlone he did go out,To tell the mayor straightTo get all things in readinessFor good Sir Charles's fate.Then Mr. Canynge sought the king,And fell down on his knee;'I'm come,' quoth he, 'unto your grace,To move your clemency.''Then,' quoth the king, 'your tale speak out,You have been much our friend:Whatever your request may be,We will to it attend.''My noble liege, all my requestIs for a noble knight,Who, though mayhap he has done wrong,He thought it still was right.'He has a spouse and children twain;All ruined are for aye,If that you are resolved to letCharles Bawdin die to-day.''Speak not of such a traitor vile,'The king in fury said;'Before the evening-star doth shine,Bawdin shall lose his head:'Justice does loudly for him call,And he shall have his meed:Speak, Mr. Canynge, what thing elseAt present do you need?''My noble liege,' good Canynge said,'Leave justice to our God,And lay the iron rule aside;Be thine the olive rod.'Was God to search our hearts and reins,The best were sinners great;Christ's vicar only knows no sin,In all this mortal state.'Let mercy rule thine infant reign,'Twill fix thy crown full sure;From race to race thy familyAll sovereigns shall endure.'But if with blood and slaughter thouBegin thy infant reign,Thy crown upon thy children's browsWill never long remain.''Canynge, away! this traitor vileHas scorned my power and me;How canst thou, then, for such a manEntreat my clemency?''My noble liege, the truly braveWill valorous actions prize:Respect a brave and noble mind,Although in enemies.''Canynge, away! By God in heavenThat did me being give,I will not taste a bit of breadWhilst this Sir Charles doth live!'By Mary, and all saints in heaven,This sun shall be his last!'Then Canynge dropped a briny tear,And from the presence passed.With heart brimful of gnawing grief,He to Sir Charles did go,And sat him down upon a stool,And tears began to flow.'We all must die,' said brave Sir Charles;'What boots it how or when?Death is the sure, the certain fate,Of all we mortal men.'Say why, my friend, thy honest soulRuns over at thine eye;Is it for my most welcome doomThat thou dost child-like cry?'Saith godly Canynge: 'I do weep,That thou so soon must die,And leave thy sons and helpless wife;'Tis this that wets mine eye.''Then dry the tears that out thine eyeFrom godly fountains spring;Death I despise, and all the powerOf Edward, traitor-king.'When through the tyrant's welcome meansI shall resign my life,The God I serve will soon provideFor both my sons and wife.'Before I saw the lightsome sun,This was appointed me;Shall mortal man repine or grudgeWhat God ordains to be?'How oft in battle have I stood,When thousands died around;When smoking streams of crimson bloodImbrued the fattened ground?'How did I know that every dartThat cut the airy way,Might not find passage to my heart,And close mine eyes for aye?'And shall I now, for fear of death,Look wan and be dismayed?No! from my heart fly childish fear;Be all the man displayed.'Ah, godlike Henry, God forefend,And guard thee and thy son,If 'tis his will; but if 'tis not,Why, then his will be done.'My honest friend, my fault has beenTo serve God and my prince;And that I no time-server am,My death will soon convince.'In London city was I born,Of parents of great note;My father did a noble armsEmblazon on his coat:'I make no doubt but he is goneWhere soon I hope to go,Where we for ever shall be blest,From out the reach of woe.'He taught me justice and the lawsWith pity to unite;And eke he taught me how to knowThe wrong cause from the right:'He taught me with a prudent handTo feed the hungry poor,Nor let my servants drive awayThe hungry from my door:'And none can say but all my lifeI have his wordis kept;And summed the actions of the dayEach night before I slept.'I have a spouse, go ask of herIf I defiled her bed?I have a king, and none can layBlack treason on my head.'In Lent, and on the holy eve,From flesh I did refrain;Why should I then appear dismayedTo leave this world of pain?'No, hapless Henry, I rejoiceI shall not see thy death;Most willingly in thy just causeDo I resign my breath.'Oh, fickle people! ruined land!Thou wilt ken peace no moe;While Richard's sons exalt themselves,Thy brooks with blood will flow.'Say, were ye tired of godly peace,And godly Henry's reign,That you did chop your easy daysFor those of blood and pain?'What though I on a sledge be drawn,And mangled by a hind,I do defy the traitor's power;He cannot harm my mind:'What though, uphoisted on a pole,My limbs shall rot in air,And no rich monument of brassCharles Bawdin's name shall bear;'Yet in the holy book above,Which time can't eat away,There with the servants of the LordMy name shall live for aye.'Then welcome death, for life eterneI leave this mortal life:Farewell, vain world, and all that's dear,My sons and loving wife!'Now death as welcome to me comesAs e'er the month of May;Now would I even wish to live,With my dear wife to stay.'Saith Canynge: ''Tis a goodly thingTo be prepared to die;And from this world of pain and griefTo God in heaven to fly.'And now the bell began to toll,And clarions to sound;Sir Charles he heard the horses' feetA-prancing on the ground.And just before the officers,His loving wife came in,Weeping unfeignèd tears of woeWith loud and dismal din.'Sweet Florence, now I pray forbear,In quiet let me die;Pray God that every Christian soulMay look on death as I.'Sweet Florence, why these briny tears?They wash my soul away,And almost make me wish for life,With thee, sweet dame, to stay.''Tis but a journey I shall goUnto the land of bliss;Now, as a proof of husband's loveReceive this holy kiss.'Then Florence, faltering in her say,Trembling these wordis spoke:'Ah, cruel Edward! bloody king!My heart is well-nigh broke.'Ah, sweet Sir Charles, why wilt thou goWithout thy loving wife?The cruel axe that cuts thy neck,It eke shall end my life.'And now the officers came inTo bring Sir Charles away,Who turnèd to his loving wife,And thus to her did say:'I go to life, and not to death;Trust thou in God above,And teach thy sons to fear the Lord,And in their hearts Him love.'Teach them to run the noble raceThat I their father run.Florence, should death thee take—adieu!Ye officers, lead on.'Then Florence raved as any mad,And did her tresses tear;'O stay, my husband, lord, and life!'—Sir Charles then dropped a tear.Till tirèd out with raving loud,She fell upon the floor;Sir Charles exerted all his might,And marchèd from out the door.Upon a sledge he mounted then,With looks full brave and sweet;Looks that enshone no more concernThan any in the street.Before him went the council-men,In scarlet robes and gold,And tassels spangling in the sun,Much glorious to behold:The friars of Saint Augustine nextAppearèd to the sight,All clad in homely russet weeds,Of godly monkish plight:In different parts a godly psalmMost sweetly they did chant;Behind their back six minstrels came,Who tuned the strange bataunt.Then five-and-twenty archers came;Each one the bow did bend,From rescue of King Henry's friendsSir Charles for to defend.Bold as a lion came Sir Charles,Drawn on a cloth-laid sledde,By two black steeds in trappings white,With plumes upon their head.Behind him five-and-twenty moreOf archers strong and stout,With bended bow each one in hand,Marchèd in goodly rout.Saint James's friars marched next,Each one his part did chant;Behind their backs six minstrels came,Who tuned the strange bataunt.Then came the mayor and aldermen,In cloth of scarlet decked;And their attending men each one,Like eastern princes tricked.And after them a multitudeOf citizens did throng;The windows were all full of heads,As he did pass along.And when he came to the high cross,Sir Charles did turn and say:'O Thou that savest man from sin,Wash my soul clean this day.'At the great minster window satThe king in mickle state,To see Charles Bawdin go alongTo his most welcome fate.Soon as the sledde drew nigh enough,That Edward he might hear,The brave Sir Charles he did stand up,And thus his words declare:'Thou seest me, Edward! traitor vile!Exposed to infamy;But be assurèd, disloyal man,I'm greater now than thee.'By foul proceedings, murder, blood,Thou wearest now a crown;And hast appointed me to dieBy power not thine own.'Thou thinkest I shall die to-day;I have been dead till now,And soon shall live to wear a crownFor aye upon my brow;'Whilst thou, perhaps, for some few years,Shalt rule this fickle land,To let them know how wide the rule'Twixt king and tyrant hand.'Thy power unjust, thou traitor slave!Shall fall on thy own head'—From out of hearing of the kingDeparted then the sledde.King Edward's soul rushed to his face,He turned his head away,And to his brother GloucesterHe thus did speak and say:'To him that so-much-dreaded deathNo ghastly terrors bring;Behold the man! he spake the truth;He's greater than a king!''So let him die!' Duke Richard said;'And may each one our foesBend down their necks to bloody axe,And feed the carrion crows.'And now the horses gently drewSir Charles up the high hill;The axe did glister in the sun,His precious blood to spill.Sir Charles did up the scaffold go,As up a gilded carOf victory, by valorous chiefsGained in the bloody war.And to the people he did say:'Behold you see me die,For serving loyally my king,My king most rightfully.'As long as Edward rules this land,No quiet you will know;Your sons and husbands shall be slain,And brooks with blood shall flow.'You leave your good and lawful kingWhen in adversity;Like me, unto the true cause stick,And for the true cause die.'Then he, with priests, upon his knees,A prayer to God did make,Beseeching Him unto HimselfHis parting soul to take.Then, kneeling down, he laid his headMost seemly on the block;Which from his body fair at onceThe able headsman stroke:And out the blood began to flow,And round the scaffold twine;And tears, enough to wash't away,Did flow from each man's eyne.The bloody axe his body fairInto four partis cut;And every part, and eke his head,Upon a pole was put.One part did rot on Kinwulph-hill,One on the minster-tower,And one from off the castle-gateThe crowen did devour.The other on Saint Paul's good gate,A dreary spectacle;His head was placed on the high cross,In high street most noble.Thus was the end of Bawdin's fate:God prosper long our king,And grant he may, with Bawdin's soul,In heaven God's mercy sing!
The feathered songster chanticleerHad wound his bugle-horn,And told the early villagerThe coming of the morn:
King Edward saw the ruddy streaksOf light eclipse the gray,And heard the raven's croaking throat,Proclaim the fated day.
'Thou 'rt right,' quoth he, 'for by the GodThat sits enthroned on high!Charles Bawdin, and his fellows twain,To-day shall surely die.'
Then with a jug of nappy aleHis knights did on him wait;'Go tell the traitor, that to-dayHe leaves this mortal state.'
Sir Canterlone then bended low,With heart brimful of woe;He journeyed to the castle-gate,And to Sir Charles did go.
But when he came, his children twain,And eke his loving wife,With briny tears did wet the floor,For good Sir Charles's life.
'O good Sir Charles,' said Canterlone,'Bad tidings I do bring.''Speak boldly, man,' said brave Sir Charles,'What says the traitor-king?'
'I grieve to tell: before yon sunDoes from the welkin fly,He hath upon his honour sworn,That thou shalt surely die.'
'We all must die,' said brave Sir Charles;'Of that I'm not afraid;What boots to live a little space?Thank Jesus, I'm prepared.
'But tell thy king, for mine he's not,I'd sooner die to-day,Than live his slave, as many are,Though I should live for aye.'
Then Canterlone he did go out,To tell the mayor straightTo get all things in readinessFor good Sir Charles's fate.
Then Mr. Canynge sought the king,And fell down on his knee;'I'm come,' quoth he, 'unto your grace,To move your clemency.'
'Then,' quoth the king, 'your tale speak out,You have been much our friend:Whatever your request may be,We will to it attend.'
'My noble liege, all my requestIs for a noble knight,Who, though mayhap he has done wrong,He thought it still was right.
'He has a spouse and children twain;All ruined are for aye,If that you are resolved to letCharles Bawdin die to-day.'
'Speak not of such a traitor vile,'The king in fury said;'Before the evening-star doth shine,Bawdin shall lose his head:
'Justice does loudly for him call,And he shall have his meed:Speak, Mr. Canynge, what thing elseAt present do you need?'
'My noble liege,' good Canynge said,'Leave justice to our God,And lay the iron rule aside;Be thine the olive rod.
'Was God to search our hearts and reins,The best were sinners great;Christ's vicar only knows no sin,In all this mortal state.
'Let mercy rule thine infant reign,'Twill fix thy crown full sure;From race to race thy familyAll sovereigns shall endure.
'But if with blood and slaughter thouBegin thy infant reign,Thy crown upon thy children's browsWill never long remain.'
'Canynge, away! this traitor vileHas scorned my power and me;How canst thou, then, for such a manEntreat my clemency?'
'My noble liege, the truly braveWill valorous actions prize:Respect a brave and noble mind,Although in enemies.'
'Canynge, away! By God in heavenThat did me being give,I will not taste a bit of breadWhilst this Sir Charles doth live!
'By Mary, and all saints in heaven,This sun shall be his last!'Then Canynge dropped a briny tear,And from the presence passed.
With heart brimful of gnawing grief,He to Sir Charles did go,And sat him down upon a stool,And tears began to flow.
'We all must die,' said brave Sir Charles;'What boots it how or when?Death is the sure, the certain fate,Of all we mortal men.
'Say why, my friend, thy honest soulRuns over at thine eye;Is it for my most welcome doomThat thou dost child-like cry?'
Saith godly Canynge: 'I do weep,That thou so soon must die,And leave thy sons and helpless wife;'Tis this that wets mine eye.'
'Then dry the tears that out thine eyeFrom godly fountains spring;Death I despise, and all the powerOf Edward, traitor-king.
'When through the tyrant's welcome meansI shall resign my life,The God I serve will soon provideFor both my sons and wife.
'Before I saw the lightsome sun,This was appointed me;Shall mortal man repine or grudgeWhat God ordains to be?
'How oft in battle have I stood,When thousands died around;When smoking streams of crimson bloodImbrued the fattened ground?
'How did I know that every dartThat cut the airy way,Might not find passage to my heart,And close mine eyes for aye?
'And shall I now, for fear of death,Look wan and be dismayed?No! from my heart fly childish fear;Be all the man displayed.
'Ah, godlike Henry, God forefend,And guard thee and thy son,If 'tis his will; but if 'tis not,Why, then his will be done.
'My honest friend, my fault has beenTo serve God and my prince;And that I no time-server am,My death will soon convince.
'In London city was I born,Of parents of great note;My father did a noble armsEmblazon on his coat:
'I make no doubt but he is goneWhere soon I hope to go,Where we for ever shall be blest,From out the reach of woe.
'He taught me justice and the lawsWith pity to unite;And eke he taught me how to knowThe wrong cause from the right:
'He taught me with a prudent handTo feed the hungry poor,Nor let my servants drive awayThe hungry from my door:
'And none can say but all my lifeI have his wordis kept;And summed the actions of the dayEach night before I slept.
'I have a spouse, go ask of herIf I defiled her bed?I have a king, and none can layBlack treason on my head.
'In Lent, and on the holy eve,From flesh I did refrain;Why should I then appear dismayedTo leave this world of pain?
'No, hapless Henry, I rejoiceI shall not see thy death;Most willingly in thy just causeDo I resign my breath.
'Oh, fickle people! ruined land!Thou wilt ken peace no moe;While Richard's sons exalt themselves,Thy brooks with blood will flow.
'Say, were ye tired of godly peace,And godly Henry's reign,That you did chop your easy daysFor those of blood and pain?
'What though I on a sledge be drawn,And mangled by a hind,I do defy the traitor's power;He cannot harm my mind:
'What though, uphoisted on a pole,My limbs shall rot in air,And no rich monument of brassCharles Bawdin's name shall bear;
'Yet in the holy book above,Which time can't eat away,There with the servants of the LordMy name shall live for aye.
'Then welcome death, for life eterneI leave this mortal life:Farewell, vain world, and all that's dear,My sons and loving wife!
'Now death as welcome to me comesAs e'er the month of May;Now would I even wish to live,With my dear wife to stay.'
Saith Canynge: ''Tis a goodly thingTo be prepared to die;And from this world of pain and griefTo God in heaven to fly.'
And now the bell began to toll,And clarions to sound;Sir Charles he heard the horses' feetA-prancing on the ground.
And just before the officers,His loving wife came in,Weeping unfeignèd tears of woeWith loud and dismal din.
'Sweet Florence, now I pray forbear,In quiet let me die;Pray God that every Christian soulMay look on death as I.
'Sweet Florence, why these briny tears?They wash my soul away,And almost make me wish for life,With thee, sweet dame, to stay.
''Tis but a journey I shall goUnto the land of bliss;Now, as a proof of husband's loveReceive this holy kiss.'
Then Florence, faltering in her say,Trembling these wordis spoke:'Ah, cruel Edward! bloody king!My heart is well-nigh broke.
'Ah, sweet Sir Charles, why wilt thou goWithout thy loving wife?The cruel axe that cuts thy neck,It eke shall end my life.'
And now the officers came inTo bring Sir Charles away,Who turnèd to his loving wife,And thus to her did say:
'I go to life, and not to death;Trust thou in God above,And teach thy sons to fear the Lord,And in their hearts Him love.
'Teach them to run the noble raceThat I their father run.Florence, should death thee take—adieu!Ye officers, lead on.'
Then Florence raved as any mad,And did her tresses tear;'O stay, my husband, lord, and life!'—Sir Charles then dropped a tear.
Till tirèd out with raving loud,She fell upon the floor;Sir Charles exerted all his might,And marchèd from out the door.
Upon a sledge he mounted then,With looks full brave and sweet;Looks that enshone no more concernThan any in the street.
Before him went the council-men,In scarlet robes and gold,And tassels spangling in the sun,Much glorious to behold:
The friars of Saint Augustine nextAppearèd to the sight,All clad in homely russet weeds,Of godly monkish plight:
In different parts a godly psalmMost sweetly they did chant;Behind their back six minstrels came,Who tuned the strange bataunt.
Then five-and-twenty archers came;Each one the bow did bend,From rescue of King Henry's friendsSir Charles for to defend.
Bold as a lion came Sir Charles,Drawn on a cloth-laid sledde,By two black steeds in trappings white,With plumes upon their head.
Behind him five-and-twenty moreOf archers strong and stout,With bended bow each one in hand,Marchèd in goodly rout.
Saint James's friars marched next,Each one his part did chant;Behind their backs six minstrels came,Who tuned the strange bataunt.
Then came the mayor and aldermen,In cloth of scarlet decked;And their attending men each one,Like eastern princes tricked.
And after them a multitudeOf citizens did throng;The windows were all full of heads,As he did pass along.
And when he came to the high cross,Sir Charles did turn and say:'O Thou that savest man from sin,Wash my soul clean this day.'
At the great minster window satThe king in mickle state,To see Charles Bawdin go alongTo his most welcome fate.
Soon as the sledde drew nigh enough,That Edward he might hear,The brave Sir Charles he did stand up,And thus his words declare:
'Thou seest me, Edward! traitor vile!Exposed to infamy;But be assurèd, disloyal man,I'm greater now than thee.
'By foul proceedings, murder, blood,Thou wearest now a crown;And hast appointed me to dieBy power not thine own.
'Thou thinkest I shall die to-day;I have been dead till now,And soon shall live to wear a crownFor aye upon my brow;
'Whilst thou, perhaps, for some few years,Shalt rule this fickle land,To let them know how wide the rule'Twixt king and tyrant hand.
'Thy power unjust, thou traitor slave!Shall fall on thy own head'—From out of hearing of the kingDeparted then the sledde.
King Edward's soul rushed to his face,He turned his head away,And to his brother GloucesterHe thus did speak and say:
'To him that so-much-dreaded deathNo ghastly terrors bring;Behold the man! he spake the truth;He's greater than a king!'
'So let him die!' Duke Richard said;'And may each one our foesBend down their necks to bloody axe,And feed the carrion crows.'
And now the horses gently drewSir Charles up the high hill;The axe did glister in the sun,His precious blood to spill.
Sir Charles did up the scaffold go,As up a gilded carOf victory, by valorous chiefsGained in the bloody war.
And to the people he did say:'Behold you see me die,For serving loyally my king,My king most rightfully.
'As long as Edward rules this land,No quiet you will know;Your sons and husbands shall be slain,And brooks with blood shall flow.
'You leave your good and lawful kingWhen in adversity;Like me, unto the true cause stick,And for the true cause die.'
Then he, with priests, upon his knees,A prayer to God did make,Beseeching Him unto HimselfHis parting soul to take.
Then, kneeling down, he laid his headMost seemly on the block;Which from his body fair at onceThe able headsman stroke:
And out the blood began to flow,And round the scaffold twine;And tears, enough to wash't away,Did flow from each man's eyne.
The bloody axe his body fairInto four partis cut;And every part, and eke his head,Upon a pole was put.
One part did rot on Kinwulph-hill,One on the minster-tower,And one from off the castle-gateThe crowen did devour.
The other on Saint Paul's good gate,A dreary spectacle;His head was placed on the high cross,In high street most noble.
Thus was the end of Bawdin's fate:God prosper long our king,And grant he may, with Bawdin's soul,In heaven God's mercy sing!