XX.THE LADY DISTRACTED WITH LOVE,

Isgiven from an old printed copy in the British Museum, compared with another in the Pepys collection; both in black letter.

[Black-letter copies of this ballad are to be found in the Bagford, Douce, and Roxburghe collections, as well as in the Pepys. The tune was a favourite one, and several other ballads were sung to it.]

Grim king of the ghosts, make haste,And bring hither all your train;See how the pale moon does waste,And just now is in the wane.Come, you night-hags, with all your charms,5And revelling witches away,And hug me close in your arms;To you my respects I'll pay.I'll court you, and think you fair,Since love does distract my brain:10I'll go, I'll wed the night-mare,And kiss her, and kiss her again:But if she prove peevish and proud,Then, a pise on her love! let her go;I'll seek me a winding shroud,15And down to the shades below.A lunacy sad I endure,Since reason departs away;I call to those hags for a cureAs knowing not what I say.20The beauty, whom I do adore,Now slights me with scorn and disdain;I never shall see her more;Ah! how shall I bear my pain!I ramble, and range about25To find out my charming saint;While she at my grief does flout,And smiles at my loud complaint.Distraction I see is my doom,Of this I am now too sure;30A rival is got in my room,While torments I do endure.Strange fancies do fill my head,While wandering in despair,I am to the desarts lead,35Expecting to find her there.Methinks in a spangled cloudI see her enthroned on high;Then to her I crie aloud,And labour to reach the sky.40When thus I have raved awhile,And wearyed myself in vain,I lye on the barren soil,And bitterly do complain.Till slumber hath quieted me,45In sorrow I sigh and weep;The clouds are my canopyTo cover me while I sleep.I dream that my charming fairIs then in my rival's bed,50Whose tresses of golden hairAre on the fair pillow bespread.Then this doth my passion inflameI start, and no longer can lie:Ah! Sylvia, art thou not to blame55To ruin a lover? I cry.Grim king of the ghosts, be true,And hurry me hence away,My languishing life to youA tribute I freely pay.60To the elysian shades I postIn hopes to be freed from care.Where many a bleeding ghostIs hovering in the air.

I'll court you, and think you fair,Since love does distract my brain:10I'll go, I'll wed the night-mare,And kiss her, and kiss her again:But if she prove peevish and proud,Then, a pise on her love! let her go;I'll seek me a winding shroud,15And down to the shades below.

A lunacy sad I endure,Since reason departs away;I call to those hags for a cureAs knowing not what I say.20The beauty, whom I do adore,Now slights me with scorn and disdain;I never shall see her more;Ah! how shall I bear my pain!

I ramble, and range about25To find out my charming saint;While she at my grief does flout,And smiles at my loud complaint.Distraction I see is my doom,Of this I am now too sure;30A rival is got in my room,While torments I do endure.

Strange fancies do fill my head,While wandering in despair,I am to the desarts lead,35Expecting to find her there.Methinks in a spangled cloudI see her enthroned on high;Then to her I crie aloud,And labour to reach the sky.40

When thus I have raved awhile,And wearyed myself in vain,I lye on the barren soil,And bitterly do complain.Till slumber hath quieted me,45In sorrow I sigh and weep;The clouds are my canopyTo cover me while I sleep.

I dream that my charming fairIs then in my rival's bed,50Whose tresses of golden hairAre on the fair pillow bespread.Then this doth my passion inflameI start, and no longer can lie:Ah! Sylvia, art thou not to blame55To ruin a lover? I cry.

Grim king of the ghosts, be true,And hurry me hence away,My languishing life to youA tribute I freely pay.60To the elysian shades I postIn hopes to be freed from care.Where many a bleeding ghostIs hovering in the air.

Mad Song the Fourth,

Wasoriginally sung in one ofTom D'urfey'scomedies ofDon Quixotein 1694 and 1696; and probably composed by himself. In the several stanzas, the author represents his pretty Mad-woman as 1. sullenly mad: 2. mirthfully mad: 3. melancholy mad: 4. fantastically mad: and 5. stark mad. Both this, and Num. XXII. are printed from D'urfey'sPills to purge Melancholy, 1719, vol. i.

From rosie bowers, where sleeps the god of love,Hither ye little wanton cupids fly;Teach me in soft melodious strains to moveWith tender passion my heart's darling joy:Ah! let the soul of musick tune my voice,5To win dear Strephon, who my soul enjoys.Or, if more influencingIs to be brisk and airy,With a step and a bound,With a frisk from the ground,10I'll trip like any fairy.As once on Ida dancingWere three celestial bodies:With an air, and a face,And a shape, and a grace,15I'll charm, like beauty's goddess.Ah! 'tis in vain! 'tis all, 'tis all in vain!Death and despair must end the fatal pain:Cold, cold despair, disguis'd like snow and rain,Falls on my breast; bleak winds in tempests blow;My veins all shiver, and my fingers glow:21My pulse beats a dead march for lost repose,And to a solid lump of ice my poor fond heart is froze.Or say, ye powers, my peace to crown,Shall I thaw myself, and drown25Among the foaming billows?Increasing all with tears I shed,On beds of ooze, and crystal pillows,Lay down, lay down my lovesick head?No, no, I'll strait run mad, mad, mad,30That soon my heart will warm;When once the sense is fled, is fled,Love has no power to charm.Wild thro' the woods I'll fly, I'll fly,Robes, locks——shall thus——be tore!35A thousand, thousand times I'll dyeEre thus, thus, in vain,—ere thus in vain adore.

Or, if more influencingIs to be brisk and airy,With a step and a bound,With a frisk from the ground,10I'll trip like any fairy.

As once on Ida dancingWere three celestial bodies:With an air, and a face,And a shape, and a grace,15I'll charm, like beauty's goddess.

Ah! 'tis in vain! 'tis all, 'tis all in vain!Death and despair must end the fatal pain:Cold, cold despair, disguis'd like snow and rain,Falls on my breast; bleak winds in tempests blow;My veins all shiver, and my fingers glow:21My pulse beats a dead march for lost repose,And to a solid lump of ice my poor fond heart is froze.

Or say, ye powers, my peace to crown,Shall I thaw myself, and drown25Among the foaming billows?Increasing all with tears I shed,On beds of ooze, and crystal pillows,Lay down, lay down my lovesick head?

No, no, I'll strait run mad, mad, mad,30That soon my heart will warm;When once the sense is fled, is fled,Love has no power to charm.Wild thro' the woods I'll fly, I'll fly,Robes, locks——shall thus——be tore!35A thousand, thousand times I'll dyeEre thus, thus, in vain,—ere thus in vain adore.

Mad Song the Fifth,

Waswritten byHenry Carey, a celebrated composer of music at the beginning of this century, and author of several little Theatrical Entertainments, which the reader may find enumerated in theCompanion to thePlay-house, &c. The sprightliness of this songster's fancy could not preserve him from a very melancholy catastrophe, which waseffected by his own hand. In hisPoems, 4to. Lond. 1729, may be seen another Mad-Song of this author, beginning thus:

"Gods! I can never this endure,Death alone must be my cure," &c.

I go to the Elysian shade,Where sorrow ne'er shall wound me;Where nothing shall my rest invade,But joy shall still surround me.I fly from Celia's cold disdain,5From her disdain I fly;She is the cause of all my pain,For her alone I die.Her eyes are brighter than the mid-day sun,When he but half his radiant course has run,10When his meridian glories gaily shine,And gild all nature with a warmth divine.See yonder river's flowing tide,Which now so full appears;Those streams, that do so swiftly glide,15Are nothing but my tears.There I have wept till I could weep no more,And curst mine eyes, when they have wept their store:Then, like the clouds, that rob the azure main,I've drain'd the flood to weep it back again.20Pity my pains,Ye gentle swains!Cover me with ice and snow,I scorch, I burn, I flame, I glow!Furies, tear me,25Quickly bear meTo the dismal shades below!Where yelling, and howlingAnd grumbling, and growlingStrike the ear with horrid woe.30Hissing snakes,Fiery lakesWould be a pleasure, and a cure:Not all the hells,Where Pluto dwells,35Can give such pain as I endure.To some peaceful plain convey me,On a mossey carpet lay me,Fan me with ambrosial breeze,Let me die, and so have ease!40

I go to the Elysian shade,Where sorrow ne'er shall wound me;Where nothing shall my rest invade,But joy shall still surround me.

I fly from Celia's cold disdain,5From her disdain I fly;She is the cause of all my pain,For her alone I die.

Her eyes are brighter than the mid-day sun,When he but half his radiant course has run,10When his meridian glories gaily shine,And gild all nature with a warmth divine.

See yonder river's flowing tide,Which now so full appears;Those streams, that do so swiftly glide,15Are nothing but my tears.

There I have wept till I could weep no more,And curst mine eyes, when they have wept their store:Then, like the clouds, that rob the azure main,I've drain'd the flood to weep it back again.20

Pity my pains,Ye gentle swains!Cover me with ice and snow,I scorch, I burn, I flame, I glow!

Furies, tear me,25Quickly bear meTo the dismal shades below!Where yelling, and howlingAnd grumbling, and growlingStrike the ear with horrid woe.30

Hissing snakes,Fiery lakesWould be a pleasure, and a cure:Not all the hells,Where Pluto dwells,35Can give such pain as I endure.

To some peaceful plain convey me,On a mossey carpet lay me,Fan me with ambrosial breeze,Let me die, and so have ease!40

Mad Song the Sixth.

This, like Num. XX., was originally sung in one ofD'urfey'scomedies ofDon Quixote, (first acted about the year 1694) and was probably composed by that popular songster, who died Feb. 26, 1723.

This is printed in theHive, a Collection of Songs, 4 vols. 1721, 12mo. where may be found two or three otherMad Songsnot admitted into these Volumes.

I burn, my brain consumes to ashes!Each eye-ball too like lightning flashes!Within my breast there glows a solid fire,Which in a thousand ages can't expire!Blow, blow, the winds' great ruler!5Bring the Po, and the Ganges hither,'Tis sultry weather,Pour them all on my soul,It will hiss like a coal,But be never the cooler.10'Twas pride hot as hell,That first made me rebell,From love's awful throne a curst angel I fellAnd mourn now my fate,Which myself did create:15Fool, fool, that consider'd not when I was well!Adieu! ye vain transporting joys!Off ye vain fantastic toys!That dress this face—this body—to allure!Bring me daggers, poison, fire!20Since scorn is turn'd into desire.All hell feels not the rage, which I, poor I, endure.

I burn, my brain consumes to ashes!Each eye-ball too like lightning flashes!Within my breast there glows a solid fire,Which in a thousand ages can't expire!

Blow, blow, the winds' great ruler!5Bring the Po, and the Ganges hither,'Tis sultry weather,Pour them all on my soul,It will hiss like a coal,But be never the cooler.10

'Twas pride hot as hell,That first made me rebell,From love's awful throne a curst angel I fellAnd mourn now my fate,Which myself did create:15Fool, fool, that consider'd not when I was well!

Adieu! ye vain transporting joys!Off ye vain fantastic toys!That dress this face—this body—to allure!Bring me daggers, poison, fire!20Since scorn is turn'd into desire.All hell feels not the rage, which I, poor I, endure.

Thefollowing rhymes, slight and insignificant as they may now seem, had once a more powerful effect than either the Philippics of Demosthenes, or Cicero; and contributed not a little towards the great revolution in 1688. Let us hear a contemporary writer.

"A foolish ballad was made at that time, treating the Papists,and chiefly the Irish, in a very ridiculous manner, which had a burden said to be Irish words,Lero, lero, liliburlero, that made an impression on the (king's) army, that cannot be imagined by those that saw it not. The whole army, and at last the people, both in city and country, were singing it perpetually. And perhaps never had so slight a thing so great an effect."—Burnet.

It was written, or at least republished, on the earl of Tyrconnel's going a second time to Ireland in October, 1688. Perhaps it is unnecessary to mention, that General Richard Talbot, newly created earl of Tyrconnel, had been nominated by K. James II. to the lieutenancy of Ireland in 1686, on account of his being a furious papist, who had recommended himself to his bigotted master by his arbitrary treatment of the protestants in the preceding year, when only lieutenant general, and whose subsequent conduct fully justified his expectations and their fears. The violences of his administration may be seen in any of the histories of those times: particularly in bishop King'sState of the Protestantsin Ireland, 1691, 4to.

This song is attributed to LordWhartonin a small pamphlet, intitled,A true relation of the several facts and circumstances of theintended riot and tumult on Q. Elizabeth's birth-day, &c.3d. ed. Lond. 1712, pr. 2d.—See p.5, viz.—"A late Viceroy (of Ireland,) who has so often boasted himself upon his talent for mischief invention, lying, and for making a certainLilliburlero Song; with which, if you will believe himself, he sung a deluded Prince out of Three Kingdoms."

LilliburleroandBullen-a-lahare said to have been the words of distinction used among the Irish Papists in their massacre of the Protestants in 1641.

[To no song could be better attributed Fletcher of Saltoun's dictum than to this poor specimen of verse, which caught the fancy of the people and drove James from his throne. Macaulay wrote of it as follows:—"From one end of England to the other all classes were constantly singing this idle rhyme. It was especially the delight of the English army. More than seventy years after the Revolution, Sterne delineated with exquisite skill a veteran who had fought at the Boyne and at Namur. One of the characteristics of the good old soldier is his trick of whistlingLilliburlero." The air is attributed to Purcell, but it is supposed that he only arranged an earlier tune. Hume thought that the popularity of the song was rather due to the composer of the air than to the author of the words.Mr. Markland, in a note to Boswell'sLife of Johnson, says, that "according to Lord Dartmouth there was a particular expression in it, which the king remembered that he had made use of to theEarl of Dorset, from whence it was concluded that he was the author." Upon this Mr. Chappell remarks, 1. that "the Earl of Dorset laid no claim to it, and it is scarcely to be believed that the author ofTo all you ladies now on landcould have penned such thorough doggrel." 2. That "the ballad contains no expression that the King would have used, which might not equally have been employed by any other person."[872]There can now be little doubt that the author was Thomas Marquis of Wharton, father of the mad Duke Philip of Wharton. He discerned the indications of the political horizon and espoused the winning side. He was well rewarded for his wisdom. Mr. S. Redmond (Notesand Queries, third series, viii. 13) writes that he has often heard the girls in the south and south-east of Ireland, while engaged in binding the corn into sheaves after the reapers, sing the following chorus, which always had reference to one of the gang who was not so quick at her work as the others, and who consequently was left behind:

Mr. Markland, in a note to Boswell'sLife of Johnson, says, that "according to Lord Dartmouth there was a particular expression in it, which the king remembered that he had made use of to theEarl of Dorset, from whence it was concluded that he was the author." Upon this Mr. Chappell remarks, 1. that "the Earl of Dorset laid no claim to it, and it is scarcely to be believed that the author ofTo all you ladies now on landcould have penned such thorough doggrel." 2. That "the ballad contains no expression that the King would have used, which might not equally have been employed by any other person."[872]There can now be little doubt that the author was Thomas Marquis of Wharton, father of the mad Duke Philip of Wharton. He discerned the indications of the political horizon and espoused the winning side. He was well rewarded for his wisdom. Mr. S. Redmond (Notesand Queries, third series, viii. 13) writes that he has often heard the girls in the south and south-east of Ireland, while engaged in binding the corn into sheaves after the reapers, sing the following chorus, which always had reference to one of the gang who was not so quick at her work as the others, and who consequently was left behind:

"Lully by lero,Lully by lero,Lully by lero,Help her along."]

Ho! broder Teague, dost hear de decree?Lilli burlero, bullen a-la.Dat we shall have a new deputie,Lilli burlero burlen a-la.Lero lero, lilli burlero, lero lero, bullen a-la,5Lero lero, lilli burlero, lero lero, bullen a-la.Ho! by shaint Tyburn, it is de Talbote:[873]Lilli, &c.And he will cut de Englishmen's troate.Lilli, &c.10Dough by my shoul de English do praat,Lilli, &c.De law's on dare side, and Creish knows what.Lilli, &c.But if dispence do come from de pope,15Lilli, &c.We'll hang Magna Charta, and dem in a rope.Lilli, &c.For de good Talbot is made a lord,Lilli, &c.20And with brave lads is coming aboard:Lilli, &c.Who all in France have taken a sware,Lilli, &c.Dat dey will have no protestant heir.25Lilli, &c.Ara! but why does he stay behind?Lilli, &c.Ho! by my shoul 'tis a protestant wind.Lilli, &c.30But see de Tyrconnel is now come ashore,Lilli, &c.And we shall have commissions gillore.Lilli, &c.And he dat will not go to de mass,35Lilli, &c.Shall be turn out, and look like an ass.Lilli, &c.Now, now de hereticks all go down,Lilli, &c.40By Chrish and shaint Patrick, de nation's our own.Lilli, &c.Dare was an old prophesy found in a bog,[874]Lilli, &c."Ireland shall be rul'd by an ass, and a dog."45Lilli, &c.And now dis prophesy is come to pass,Lilli, &c.For Talbot's de dog, andJa**sis de ass.Lilli, &c.50

Ho! by shaint Tyburn, it is de Talbote:[873]Lilli, &c.And he will cut de Englishmen's troate.Lilli, &c.10

Dough by my shoul de English do praat,Lilli, &c.De law's on dare side, and Creish knows what.Lilli, &c.

But if dispence do come from de pope,15Lilli, &c.We'll hang Magna Charta, and dem in a rope.Lilli, &c.

For de good Talbot is made a lord,Lilli, &c.20And with brave lads is coming aboard:Lilli, &c.

Who all in France have taken a sware,Lilli, &c.Dat dey will have no protestant heir.25Lilli, &c.

Ara! but why does he stay behind?Lilli, &c.Ho! by my shoul 'tis a protestant wind.Lilli, &c.30

But see de Tyrconnel is now come ashore,Lilli, &c.And we shall have commissions gillore.Lilli, &c.

And he dat will not go to de mass,35Lilli, &c.Shall be turn out, and look like an ass.Lilli, &c.

Now, now de hereticks all go down,Lilli, &c.40By Chrish and shaint Patrick, de nation's our own.Lilli, &c.

Dare was an old prophesy found in a bog,[874]Lilli, &c."Ireland shall be rul'd by an ass, and a dog."45Lilli, &c.

And now dis prophesy is come to pass,Lilli, &c.For Talbot's de dog, andJa**sis de ass.Lilli, &c.50

FOOTNOTES:[872][Popular Music of the Olden Time, vol. ii. p. 569.][873]Ver. 7. Ho by my shoul,al. ed.[874]Ver. 43. What follows is not in some copies.

[872][Popular Music of the Olden Time, vol. ii. p. 569.]

[873]Ver. 7. Ho by my shoul,al. ed.

[874]Ver. 43. What follows is not in some copies.

In Imitation of the Ancient Scots Manner,

Waswritten by William Hamilton, of Bangour, Esq; who died March 25, 1734, aged 50. It is printed from an elegant edition of hisPoems, published at Edinburgh, 1760, 12mo. This song was written in imitation of an old Scottish ballad on a similar subject, with the same burden to each stanza.

[The beautiful river Yarrow has few rivals as an inspirer of song. These verses of Hamilton's are copied from the old ballad—TheDowie Dens(melancholy downs)of Yarrow, a collated version of which was first printed by Scott in hisMinstrelsy of the ScottishBorder. Scott was of opinion that with many readers the greatest recommendation of the old ballad will be that it suggested to Hamilton his modern one. We may say that the greatest recommendation of Hamilton's poem to us is the fact that it inspired Wordsworth to write his three lovely little poems,Yarrow Unvisited,Visited, andRevisited.There are two old ballads which have been much mixed up by reciters, viz.The Dowie DensandWillie's drowned in Yarrow. The Rev. John Logan'sBraes of Yarrowis founded on the latter.William Hamilton of Bangour was born in 1704 and died at Lyons in 1754, from which place his remains were brought to Scotland, and interred in Holyrood Abbey. He was a Jacobite, and after the battle of Culloden was forced to skulk about the Highlands in disguise until he was able to escape to France. He returned to Scotland after the country had quieted down in 1749.]

There are two old ballads which have been much mixed up by reciters, viz.The Dowie DensandWillie's drowned in Yarrow. The Rev. John Logan'sBraes of Yarrowis founded on the latter.

William Hamilton of Bangour was born in 1704 and died at Lyons in 1754, from which place his remains were brought to Scotland, and interred in Holyrood Abbey. He was a Jacobite, and after the battle of Culloden was forced to skulk about the Highlands in disguise until he was able to escape to France. He returned to Scotland after the country had quieted down in 1749.]

A.Busk[875]ye, busk ye, my bonny bonny bride,Busk ye, busk ye, my winsome marrow,[876]Busk ye, busk ye, my bonny bonny bride,And think nae mair on the Braes[877]of Yarrow.B.Where gat ye that bonny bonny bride?5Where gat ye that winsome marrow?A.I gat her where I dare na weil be seen,Puing the birks[878]on the Braes of Yarrow.Weep not, weep not, my bonny bonny bride,Weep not, weep not, my winsome marrow;10Nor let thy heart lament to leivePuing the birks on the Braes of Yarrow.B.Why does she weep, thy bonny bonny bride?Why does she weep thy winsome marrow?And why dare ye nae mair weil be seen15Puing the birks on the Braes of Yarrow?A.Lang maun she weep, lang maun she, maun she weep,Lang maun she weep with dule and sorrow;And lang maun I nae mair weil be seenPuing the birks on the Braes of Yarrow.20For she has tint[879]her luver, luver dear,Her luver dear, the cause of sorrow;And I hae slain the comliest swainThat eir pu'd birks on the Braes of Yarrow.Why rins thy stream, O Yarrow, Yarrow, reid?25Why on thy braes heard the voice of sorrow?And why yon melancholious weidsHung on the bonny birks of Yarrow?What's yonder floats on the rueful rueful flude?What's yonder floats? O dule and sorrow!30O 'tis he the comely swain I slewUpon the duleful Braes of Yarrow.Wash, O wash his wounds, his wounds in tears,His wounds in tears with dule and sorrow;And wrap his limbs in mourning weids,35And lay him on the Braes of Yarrow.Then build, then build, ye sisters, sisters sad,Ye sisters sad, his tomb with sorrow;And weep around in waeful wiseHis hapless fate on the Braes of Yarrow.40Curse ye, curse ye, his useless, useless shield,My arm that wrought the deed of sorrow,The fatal spear that pierc'd his breast,His comely breast on the Braes of Yarrow.Did I not warn thee, not to, not to luve?45And warn from fight? but to my sorrowToo rashly bauld a stronger armThou mett'st, and fell'st on the Braes of Yarrow.Sweet smells the birk, green grows, green grows the grass,Yellow on Yarrow's bank the gowan,[880]50Fair hangs the apple frae the rock,Sweet the wave of Yarrow flowan.Flows Yarrow sweet? as sweet, as sweet flows Tweed,As green its grass, its gowan as yellow,As sweet smells on its braes the birk,55The apple frae its rock as mellow.Fair was thy luve, fair fair indeed thy luve,In flow'ry bands thou didst him fetter;Tho' he was fair, and weil beluv'd againThan me he never luv'd thee better.60Busk ye, then busk, my bonny bonny bride,Busk ye, busk ye, my winsome marrow,Busk ye, and luve me on the banks of Tweed,And think nae mair on the Braes of Yarrow.C.How can I busk a bonny bonny bride?65How can I busk a winsome marrow?How luve him upon the banks of Tweed,That slew my luve on the Braes of Yarrow?O Yarrow fields, may never never rain,Nor dew thy tender blossoms cover,70For there was basely slain my luve,My luve, as he had not been a lover.The boy put on his robes, his robes of green,His purple vest, 'twas my awn sewing:Ah! wretched me! I little, little kenn'd75He was in these to meet his ruin.The boy took out his milk-white, milk-white steed,Unheedful of my dule and sorrow:But ere the toofall[881]of the nightHe lay a corps on the Braes of Yarrow.80Much I rejoyc'd that waeful waeful day;I sang, my voice the woods returning:But lang ere night the spear was flown,That slew my luve, and left me mourning.What can my barbarous barbarous father do,85But with his cruel rage pursue me?My luver's blood is on thy spear,How canst thou, barbarous man, then wooe me?My happy sisters may be, may be proudWith cruel, and ungentle scoffin',90May bid me seek on Yarrow's BraesMy luver nailed in his coffin.My brother Douglas may upbraid, upbraid,And strive with threatning words to muve me:My luver's blood is on thy spear,95How canst thou ever bid me luve thee?Yes, yes, prepare the bed, the bed of luve,With bridal sheets my body cover,Unbar, ye bridal maids, the door,Let in the expected husband lover.100But who the expected husband husband is?His hands, methinks, are bath'd in slaughter:Ah me! what ghastly spectre's yonComes in his pale shroud, bleeding after?Pale as he is, here lay him, lay him down,105O lay his cold head on my pillow;Take aff, take aff these bridal weids,And crown my careful head with willow.Pale tho' thou art, yet best, yet best beluv'd,O could my warmth to life restore thee!110Yet lye all night between my breists,No youth lay ever there before thee.Pale, pale indeed, O luvely luvely youth,Forgive, forgive, so foul a slaughter,And lye all night between my breists,115No youth shall ever lye there after.A.Return, return, O mournful, mournful bride,Return and dry thy useless sorrow:Thy luver heeds none of thy sighs,He lyes a corps in the Braes of Yarrow.120

A.Busk[875]ye, busk ye, my bonny bonny bride,Busk ye, busk ye, my winsome marrow,[876]Busk ye, busk ye, my bonny bonny bride,And think nae mair on the Braes[877]of Yarrow.

B.Where gat ye that bonny bonny bride?5Where gat ye that winsome marrow?A.I gat her where I dare na weil be seen,Puing the birks[878]on the Braes of Yarrow.

Weep not, weep not, my bonny bonny bride,Weep not, weep not, my winsome marrow;10Nor let thy heart lament to leivePuing the birks on the Braes of Yarrow.

B.Why does she weep, thy bonny bonny bride?Why does she weep thy winsome marrow?And why dare ye nae mair weil be seen15Puing the birks on the Braes of Yarrow?

A.Lang maun she weep, lang maun she, maun she weep,Lang maun she weep with dule and sorrow;And lang maun I nae mair weil be seenPuing the birks on the Braes of Yarrow.20

For she has tint[879]her luver, luver dear,Her luver dear, the cause of sorrow;And I hae slain the comliest swainThat eir pu'd birks on the Braes of Yarrow.

Why rins thy stream, O Yarrow, Yarrow, reid?25Why on thy braes heard the voice of sorrow?And why yon melancholious weidsHung on the bonny birks of Yarrow?

What's yonder floats on the rueful rueful flude?What's yonder floats? O dule and sorrow!30O 'tis he the comely swain I slewUpon the duleful Braes of Yarrow.

Wash, O wash his wounds, his wounds in tears,His wounds in tears with dule and sorrow;And wrap his limbs in mourning weids,35And lay him on the Braes of Yarrow.

Then build, then build, ye sisters, sisters sad,Ye sisters sad, his tomb with sorrow;And weep around in waeful wiseHis hapless fate on the Braes of Yarrow.40

Curse ye, curse ye, his useless, useless shield,My arm that wrought the deed of sorrow,The fatal spear that pierc'd his breast,His comely breast on the Braes of Yarrow.

Did I not warn thee, not to, not to luve?45And warn from fight? but to my sorrowToo rashly bauld a stronger armThou mett'st, and fell'st on the Braes of Yarrow.

Sweet smells the birk, green grows, green grows the grass,Yellow on Yarrow's bank the gowan,[880]50Fair hangs the apple frae the rock,Sweet the wave of Yarrow flowan.

Flows Yarrow sweet? as sweet, as sweet flows Tweed,As green its grass, its gowan as yellow,As sweet smells on its braes the birk,55The apple frae its rock as mellow.

Fair was thy luve, fair fair indeed thy luve,In flow'ry bands thou didst him fetter;Tho' he was fair, and weil beluv'd againThan me he never luv'd thee better.60

Busk ye, then busk, my bonny bonny bride,Busk ye, busk ye, my winsome marrow,Busk ye, and luve me on the banks of Tweed,And think nae mair on the Braes of Yarrow.

C.How can I busk a bonny bonny bride?65How can I busk a winsome marrow?How luve him upon the banks of Tweed,That slew my luve on the Braes of Yarrow?

O Yarrow fields, may never never rain,Nor dew thy tender blossoms cover,70For there was basely slain my luve,My luve, as he had not been a lover.

The boy put on his robes, his robes of green,His purple vest, 'twas my awn sewing:Ah! wretched me! I little, little kenn'd75He was in these to meet his ruin.

The boy took out his milk-white, milk-white steed,Unheedful of my dule and sorrow:But ere the toofall[881]of the nightHe lay a corps on the Braes of Yarrow.80

Much I rejoyc'd that waeful waeful day;I sang, my voice the woods returning:But lang ere night the spear was flown,That slew my luve, and left me mourning.

What can my barbarous barbarous father do,85But with his cruel rage pursue me?My luver's blood is on thy spear,How canst thou, barbarous man, then wooe me?

My happy sisters may be, may be proudWith cruel, and ungentle scoffin',90May bid me seek on Yarrow's BraesMy luver nailed in his coffin.

My brother Douglas may upbraid, upbraid,And strive with threatning words to muve me:My luver's blood is on thy spear,95How canst thou ever bid me luve thee?

Yes, yes, prepare the bed, the bed of luve,With bridal sheets my body cover,Unbar, ye bridal maids, the door,Let in the expected husband lover.100

But who the expected husband husband is?His hands, methinks, are bath'd in slaughter:Ah me! what ghastly spectre's yonComes in his pale shroud, bleeding after?

Pale as he is, here lay him, lay him down,105O lay his cold head on my pillow;Take aff, take aff these bridal weids,And crown my careful head with willow.

Pale tho' thou art, yet best, yet best beluv'd,O could my warmth to life restore thee!110Yet lye all night between my breists,No youth lay ever there before thee.

Pale, pale indeed, O luvely luvely youth,Forgive, forgive, so foul a slaughter,And lye all night between my breists,115No youth shall ever lye there after.

A.Return, return, O mournful, mournful bride,Return and dry thy useless sorrow:Thy luver heeds none of thy sighs,He lyes a corps in the Braes of Yarrow.120

FOOTNOTES:[875][dress.][876][companion.][877][hilly banks.][878][pulling the birch trees.][879][lost.][880][daisy.][881][twilight.]

[875][dress.]

[876][companion.]

[877][hilly banks.]

[878][pulling the birch trees.]

[879][lost.]

[880][daisy.]

[881][twilight.]

Wasa party song written by the ingenious author ofLeonidas,[882]on the taking of Porto Bello from the Spaniards by Admiral Vernon, Nov. 22, 1739.—The case of Hosier, which is here so pathetically represented, was briefly this. In April, 1726, that commander was sent with a strong fleet into the Spanish West-Indies, to block up the galleons in the ports of that country, or should they presume to come out, to seize and carry them into England: he accordingly arrived at the Bastimentos near Porto Bello, but being employed rather to overawe than to attack the Spaniards, with whom it was probably not our interest to go to war, he continued long inactive on that station, to his own great regret. He afterwards removed to Carthagena, and remained cruizing in these seas, till far the greater part of his men perished deplorably by the diseases of that unhealthy climate. This brave man, seeing his best officers and men thus daily swept away, his ships exposed to inevitable destruction, and himself made the sport of the enemy, is said to have died of a broken heart. Such is the account of Smollett, compared with that of other less partial writers.

The following song is commonly accompanied with a Second Part, or Answer, which being of inferior merit, and apparently written by another hand, hath been rejected.

[Dr. Rimbault (Musical Illustrations, p. 30) writes: "The earliest copy of the tune to this ballad is contained in the ballad opera ofSylvia, or the Country Burial, 1731. It may also be found in Walsh'sBritish Musical Miscellany, vol. iv. and in other works of a similar description. The ballads ofCome and listen to my dittyandCease, rude Boreas, were sung to this tune, which appears to have been always a favourite for 'sea ditties.'"In Hannah More'sLife(vol. i. p. 405) is the following interesting note: "I was much amused with hearing old Leonidas Glover sing his own fine ballad ofHosier's Ghost, which was very affecting. He is past eighty." In the matter of the last item Mrs. More was wrong. Richard Glover was born in 1712, and died on Nov. 25, 1785.]

In Hannah More'sLife(vol. i. p. 405) is the following interesting note: "I was much amused with hearing old Leonidas Glover sing his own fine ballad ofHosier's Ghost, which was very affecting. He is past eighty." In the matter of the last item Mrs. More was wrong. Richard Glover was born in 1712, and died on Nov. 25, 1785.]

As near Porto-Bello lyingOn the gently swelling flood,At midnight with streamers flyingOur triumphant navy rode;There while Vernon sate all-glorious5From the Spaniards' late defeat:And his crews, with shouts victorious,Drank success to England's fleet:On a sudden shrilly sounding,Hideous yells and shrieks were heard;10Then each heart with fear confounding,A sad troop of ghosts appear'd,All in dreary hammocks shrouded,Which for winding-sheets they wore,And with looks by sorrow clouded15Frowning on that hostile shore.On them gleam'd the moon's wan lustre,When the shade of Hosier braveHis pale bands was seen to musterRising from their watry grave.20O'er the glimmering wave he hy'd him,Where the Burford[883]rear'd her sail,With three thousand ghosts beside him,And in groans did Vernon hail.Heed, oh heed our fatal story,25I am Hosier's injur'd ghost,You, who now have purchas'd glory,At this place where I was lost!Tho' in Porto-Bello's ruinYou now triumph free from fears,30When you think on our undoing,You will mix your joy with tears.See these mournful spectres sweepingGhastly o'er this hated wave,Whose wan cheeks are stain'd with weeping;35These were English captains brave.Mark those numbers pale and horrid,Those were once my sailors bold:Lo, each hangs his drooping forehead,While his dismal tale is told.40I, by twenty sail attended,Did this Spanish town affright;Nothing then its wealth defendedBut my orders not to fight.Oh! that in this rolling ocean45I had cast them with disdain,And obey'd my heart's warm motionTo have quell'd the pride of Spain!For resistance I could fear none,But with twenty ships had done50What thou, brave and happy Vernon,Hast atchiev'd with six alone.Then the bastimentos neverHad our foul dishonour seen,Nor the sea the sad receiver55Of this gallant train had been.Thus, like thee, proud Spain dismaying,And her galleons leading home,Though condemn'd for disobeying,I had met a traitor's doom,60To have fallen, my country cryingHe has play'd an English part,Had been better far than dyingOf a griev'd and broken heart.Unrepining at thy glory,65Thy successful arms we hail;But remember our sad story,And let Hosier's wrongs prevail.Sent in this foul clime to languish,Think what thousands fell in vain,70Wasted with disease and anguish,Not in glorious battle slain.Hence with all my train attendingFrom their oozy tombs below,Thro' the hoary foam ascending,75Here I feed my constant woe:Here the bastimentos viewing,We recal our shameful doom,And our plaintive cries renewing,Wander thro' the midnight gloom.80O'er these waves for ever mourningShall we roam depriv'd of rest,If to Britain's shores returningYou neglect my just request;After this proud foe subduing,85When your patriot friends you see,Think on vengeance for my ruin,And for England sham'd in me.

On a sudden shrilly sounding,Hideous yells and shrieks were heard;10Then each heart with fear confounding,A sad troop of ghosts appear'd,All in dreary hammocks shrouded,Which for winding-sheets they wore,And with looks by sorrow clouded15Frowning on that hostile shore.

On them gleam'd the moon's wan lustre,When the shade of Hosier braveHis pale bands was seen to musterRising from their watry grave.20O'er the glimmering wave he hy'd him,Where the Burford[883]rear'd her sail,With three thousand ghosts beside him,And in groans did Vernon hail.

Heed, oh heed our fatal story,25I am Hosier's injur'd ghost,You, who now have purchas'd glory,At this place where I was lost!Tho' in Porto-Bello's ruinYou now triumph free from fears,30When you think on our undoing,You will mix your joy with tears.

See these mournful spectres sweepingGhastly o'er this hated wave,Whose wan cheeks are stain'd with weeping;35These were English captains brave.Mark those numbers pale and horrid,Those were once my sailors bold:Lo, each hangs his drooping forehead,While his dismal tale is told.40

I, by twenty sail attended,Did this Spanish town affright;Nothing then its wealth defendedBut my orders not to fight.Oh! that in this rolling ocean45I had cast them with disdain,And obey'd my heart's warm motionTo have quell'd the pride of Spain!

For resistance I could fear none,But with twenty ships had done50What thou, brave and happy Vernon,Hast atchiev'd with six alone.Then the bastimentos neverHad our foul dishonour seen,Nor the sea the sad receiver55Of this gallant train had been.

Thus, like thee, proud Spain dismaying,And her galleons leading home,Though condemn'd for disobeying,I had met a traitor's doom,60To have fallen, my country cryingHe has play'd an English part,Had been better far than dyingOf a griev'd and broken heart.

Unrepining at thy glory,65Thy successful arms we hail;But remember our sad story,And let Hosier's wrongs prevail.Sent in this foul clime to languish,Think what thousands fell in vain,70Wasted with disease and anguish,Not in glorious battle slain.

Hence with all my train attendingFrom their oozy tombs below,Thro' the hoary foam ascending,75Here I feed my constant woe:Here the bastimentos viewing,We recal our shameful doom,And our plaintive cries renewing,Wander thro' the midnight gloom.80

O'er these waves for ever mourningShall we roam depriv'd of rest,If to Britain's shores returningYou neglect my just request;After this proud foe subduing,85When your patriot friends you see,Think on vengeance for my ruin,And for England sham'd in me.

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