A fayre russet coat the tanner had on
Fast buttoned under his chin;
And under him a good cow-hide,
And a mare of four shilling.

Nowe stand you still, my good lordes all,
Under the greene wood spraye,
And I will wende to yonder fellowe,
To weet what he will saye.

God speede, God speede thee, said our king.
Thou art welcome, sir, sayde hee.
The readyest waye to Drayton Basset
I praye thee to shewe to mee.
To Drayton Basset wouldst thou goe,

Fro the place where thou dost stand,
The next payre of gallowes thou comest unto,
Turn in upon thy right hand.

That is an unready waye, sayd the king,
Thou doest but jest, I see:
Now shewe me out the nearest waye,
And I pray thee wend with mee
Awaye with a vengeance! quoth the tanner,
I hold thee out of thy witt:

All daye have I ridden on Brocke my mare,
And I am fasting yett.

Go with me downe to Drayton Basset,
No daynties we will spare:

All daye shalt thou eate and drink of the best,
And I will paye thy fare.

Gramercye for nothing, the tanner replyde,
Thou payest no fare of mine:

I trow I've more nobles in my purse,
Than thou hast pence in thine.

God give thee joy of them, sayd the king,
And send them well to priefe.
The tanner wolde faine have been away,

For he weende he had beene a thiefe. What art thou, he sayde, thou fine fellowe?

Of thee I'm in greate feare;
For the cloathes thou wearest upon thy backe
Might beseeme a lord to weare.

I never stole them, quoth our king,
I tell you, sir, by the roode.
Then thou playest as many an unthrift doth,
And standeth in midds of thy goode.
What tydings heare you, sayd the kynge,
As you ryde far and neare?

I hear no tydings, sir, by the masse,
But that cow-hides are deare.
Cowe-hides! cowe-hides! what things are
those?

I marvell what they bee?

What, art thou a foole? the tanner reply'd;
I carry one under mee.

What craftsman art thou? said the king;
I pray thee tell me trowe.
I am a barker*, sir, by trade;
Now tell me what art thou?

I am a poore courtier, sir, quoth he,
That am forth of service worne;
And fain I wolde thy prentise bee,
Thy cunninge for to learne.

Marrye, heaven forfend, the tanner replyde,
That thou my prentise were:
Thou woldst spend more good than I shold winn,
By fortye shilling a yere.

Yet one thinge wold I, sayd our king,
If thou wilt not seeme strange;
Thoughe my horse be better than thy mare,
Yet with thee I faine wold change.

Why if with me thou faine wilt change,
A's change full well maye wee,

By the faith of my bodye, thou proude fellowe,
I will have some boot of thee.

That were against reason, sayd the king,
I sweare, so mote I thee:
My horse is better than thy mare,
And that thou well mayst see.

Yea, sir, but Brocke is gentle and mild,
And softly she will fare:

Thy horse is unrulye and wild, I wiss;
Aye skipping here and theare.

What boote wilt thou have? our king replied
Now tell me in this stounde.

Noe pence, nor half-pence, by my faye,
But a noble in gold so rounde.
Here's twenty groates of white moneyè,
Sith thou wilt have it of mee.

I would have sworne now, quoth the tannèr,
Thou hadst not had one penniè.

But since we two have made a change,
A change we must abide;
Although thou hast gotten Brocke my mare,
Thou gettest not my cowe-hide.

I will not have it, sayde the kynge,
I sweare, so mote I thee;

Thy foule cowe-hide I would not beare,
If thou woldst give it mee.

The tanner he took his good cowe-hide,
That of the cowe was hilt;
And threwe it upon the king's saddèlle,
That was so fayrely gilte.

Now help me up, thou fine fellowe,
'Tis time that I were gone:
When I come home to Gyllian iny wife,
She'll say I'm a gentilmon.

The kinge he took him by the legge;
The tanner a f*** let fall.

Now marrye, good fellowe, said the kinge,
Thy courtesye is but small.

When the tanner he was in the king's saddèlle,
And his foote in the stirrup was,
He marvelled greatlye in his minde,

Whether it were golde or brass.

But when his steede saw the cows-taile wagge, And eke the black cowe-horne,

He stamped, and stared, and awaye he ranne,
As the devill had him borne.

The tanner he pull'd, the tanner he sweat,
And held by the pummil fast;

At length the tanner came tumbling downe:
His necke he had well-nye brast.

With mee he shall not byde.

My horse would have borne thee well enoughe,
Be he knewe not of thy cowe-hide:
Yet if againe thou faine woldst change,
As change full well may wee,

By the faith of thy bodye, thou jolly tanner,
I will have some boote of thee.
What boote wilt thou have, the tanner reply'd,
Nowe tell me in this stounde?
Noe pence, nor half-pence, sir, by my faye,
But I will have twentye pounde.
Here's twenty groates out of my purse;
And twentye I have of thine:
And I have one more, which we will spend
Together at the Vine.

The kinge set a bugle horne to his mouthe,
And blewe bothe loude and shrille;
And soone came lords, and soone came knights,
Fast ryding over the hille.

Nowe, out alas! the tanner he cryde,

That ever I sawe this daye!
Thou art a strong thefe, yon come thy fellowes
Will beare my cowe-hide away.
They are no thieves, the king replyde,
I sweare, so mote I thee:

But they are the lords of the north countrèy,
Here come to hunt with mee.

And soone before our king they came,

And knelt downe on the grounde:
Then might the tanner have beene awaye,
He had lever than twentye pounde.
A coller, a coller, here, sayd the kinge,
A coller, he loud did crye.

Then woulde he lever than twentye pounde
He had not been so nighe.

A coller, a coller, the tanner he sayd,
I trowe it will breede sorrowe:
After a coller comes a halter,

And I shall be hanged to-morrowe.
Away with thy feare, thou jolly tannèr;
For the sport thou hast shewn to mee,
I wote noe halter thou shalt weare,
But thou shalt have a knight's fee.
For Plumpton parke I will give thee,
With tenements faire beside,

"Tis worth three hundred markes by the yeare,
To maintain thy good cowe-hide.
Gramercye, my liege, the tanner replyde,
For the favour thou hast me showne;
If ever thou comest to merry Tamworth,
Neates leather shall clout thy shoen.

§ 116. Lady Ann Bothwell's Lament.
Scottish Song.

A

The subject of this pathetic ballad is, A lady of quality, of the name of BOTHWELL, or rather BoSWELL, having been, together with her child, deserted by her husband, or lover, composed these affecting lines herself.

BALOW, my babe, ly stil and sleipe!
It grieves me sair to see thee weipe;
If thoust be silent, Ise be glad,
1by maining maks my heart ful sad.

Balow, &c.

But doe not, doe not, prettie mine,
To faynings fals thine hart incline:
Be loyal to thy luver trew,

And nevir change hir for a new:
If gude or faire, of hir have care,
For womens banning's wonderous sair.
Bolow, &c.
Bairne, sin thy cruel father is gane,
Thy winsome smiles maun eise my paine:
My babe and I'll together live,
He'll comfort me when cares doe grieve:
My babe and I right saft will ly,
And quite forget man's cruelty.

Balow, &c. Fareweil, fareweil, thou falsest youth, That ever kist a woman's mouth! I wish all maids be warn'd by mee, Nevir to trust man's curtesy ; For if we doe bot chance to bow, They'lle use us than they care not how. Balow, my babe, ly stil and sleipe! It grieves ine sair to see thee weipe. § 117. Corydon's doleful Knell. The burthen of the song, DING, DONG, &c. is at present appropriated to burlesque subjects, and therefore may excite only ludicrous ideas in a modern reader, but in the time of our poet it usually accompanied the most solemn and mournful strains. My Phillida, adieu, love!

For evermore farewell!
Ay me! I've lost my true love,
And thus I ring her knell.

Ding dong, ding dong, ding dong,
My Phillida is dead!
I'll stick a branch of willow
At my
fair Phillis' head.
For my fair Phillida

Our bridal bed was made:
But 'stead of silkes so gay,

She in her shroud is laid.

Ding, &c.

And with my tears, as showers,

That never hawked nor hunted but in his own grounds,

Instead of fairest colours,

Set forth with curious art†,

Her image shall be painted

On my

distressed heart.

Ding, &c

his own bounds,

Like an old courtier, &c.

But to his eldest son his house and land he as

sign'd, [tifull mind, Charging him in his will to keep the old boun

Ding, &c.

$118. The old and young Courtier. The subject of this excellent old song is a comparison between the manners of the old gentry as still sub

sisting in the times of Elizabeth, and the modern refinements affected by their sons in the reigns of her successors.

AN old song made by an aged old pate,
Of an old worshipful gentleman who had a
great estate,

That kept a brave old house at a bountiful rate,
And an old porter to relieve the poor at his gate;
Like an old courtier of the queen's,
And the queen's old courtier.
With an old ladywhose anger one word asswages;
They every quarter paid their old servants their

wages,

And never knew what belonged to coachman, footmen, nor pages, [badges; But kept twenty old fellows with blue coats and Like an old courtier, &c. With an old study fill'd full of learned old books, With an old reverend chaplain, you might know him by his looks,

With an old buttery-hatch worn quite off the hooks, [zen old cooks; And an old kitchen that maintain'd half a doLike an old courtier, &c.

bours be kind:

But in the ensuing ditty you shall hear how he was inclin'd,

Like a young courtier of the king's, And the king's young courtier. Like a flourishing young gallant, newly come to his land,

Who keeps a brace of painted madams at his command,

And takes up a thousand pound upon his father's land,

And gets drunk in a tavern, till he can neither go nor stand!

Like a young courtier, &c. With a new-fangled lady, that is dainty, nice, Who never knew what belonged to good and spare, house-keeping, or care;

Who buys gaudy-colour'd fans to play with And seven or eight different dressings of other wanton air, women's hair;

Like a young courtier, &c. With a new-fashion'd hall, built where the old one stood,

Hung round with new pictures that do the poor no good,

With a fine marble chimney, wherein burns neither coal nor wood,

And a new smooth shovelboard, whereon no victuals e'er stood;

Like a young courtier, &c.

With a new study stuft full of pamphlets and plays,

[prays, And a new chaplain, that swears faster than he With a new buttery-hatch that opens once in four or five days,

And a new French cook to devise fine kickshaws and toys;

Like a young courtier, &c.

With a new fashion, when Christmas is drawing on,

On a new journey to London straight we all must be gone,

And leave none to keep house, but our new porter John,

Who relieves the poor with a thump on the back with a stone;

Like a young courtier, &c.

With a new gentleman-usher, whose carriage is complete,

With a new coachman, footmen, and pages to carry up the meat,

With a waiting gentlewoman, whose dressing is very neat,

Who, when her lady has din'd, lets the servants not cat ;

Like a young courtier, &c. With new titles of honor bought with his father's old gold,

For which sundry of his ancestors' old manors
are sold;
[hold,
And this is the course most of our new gallants
Which makes that good house-keeping is now
grown so cold

Among the young courtiers of the king,
Or the king's young courtiers.

$119. Loyally confined. This excellent old song is preserved in David Lloyd's

"Memoires of those that suffered in the cause of Charles I." He speaks of it as the composition of a worthy personage, who suffered deeply in those times, and was still living, with no other reward than the conscience of having suffered. The author's name he has not mentioned; but, if tradition may be credited, this song was written by Sir R. L'ESTRANGE

BEAT on, proud billews; Boreas, blow;

Swell, curled waves, high as Jove's roof; Your incivility doth show,

That innocence is tempest-proof; Though surly Nereus frown, my thoughts are calm;

Then strike, Affliction, for thy wounds are balın.

That which the world miscalls a jail,
A private closet is to me :
Whilst a good conscience is my bail,
And innocence my liberty;
Locks, bars, and solitude, together met,
Make me no prisoner, but an anchoret.
I, whilst I wish'd to be retir'd,

Into this private room was turn'd,
As if their wisdoms had conspir'd
The salamander should be burn'd:
Or like those sophists that would drown a fish,
I am constrain'd to suffer what I wish.

The cynic loves his poverty;

The pelican her wilderness;
And 'tis the Indian's pride to be

Naked on frozen Caucasus :
Contentment cannot smart; Stoics, we see,
Make torments easie to their apathy.
These manicles upon my arm

I as my mistress' favours wear; And, for to keep my ancles warm,

I have some iron shackles there: These walls are but my garrison; this cell, Which men call jail, doth prove my citadel: I'm in the cabinet lock'd up,

Like some high-prized margarite, Or, like the great mogul or pope,

Am cloyster'd up from public sight:
Retiredness is a piece of majesty,
And thus, proud Sultan, I'm as great as thee.
Here sin for want of food must starve,

Where tempting objects are not seen;
And these strong walls do only serve

To keep vice out, and keep me in:
Malice of late's grown charitable, sure;
I'm not committed, but am kept secure.
So he that struck at Jason's life,

Thinking t' have made his purpose sure, By a malicious friendly knife,

Did only wound him to a cure. Malice, I see, wants wit; for what is meant Mischief, oftimes proves favour by th' event. When once my prince affliction hath, Prosperity doth treason seem; And to make smooth so rough a path,

I can learn patience from him:
Now not to suffer, shows no loyal heart;
When kings want case, subjects must bear a part.
What though I cannot see my king,

Neither in person or in coin;
Yet contemplation is a thing

That renders what I have not mine:
My king from me what adamant can part,
Whom I do wear engraven on my heart!

Have you not seen the nightingale,

A prisoner like, coopt in a cage;
How doth she chant her wonted tale

In that her narrow hermitage!
Even then her charming melody doth prove
That all her bars are trees, her cage a grove.

I am that bird, whom they combine
Thus to deprive of liberty;
But though they do my corps confine,
Yet, mangre hate, my soul is free:

And though immur'd, yet can I chirp, and sing
Disgrace to rebels, glory to my king!

My soul is free as ambient air,
Although my baser part's immew'd,
Whilst loyal thoughts do still repair
Taccompany my solitude:

Although rebellion do my body binde,
My king alone can captivate my minde.

994

§ 120. To Althea from Prison. This excellent Sonnet, which possessed a high degree of fame among the old Cavaliers, was written by Colonel Richard Lovelace during his confinement in the Gate-house, Westminster; to which he was committed by the House of Commons, in April 1642, for presenting a petition from the county of Kent, requesting them to restore the king to his rights, and to settle the government. See Wood's Athenæ, vol. ii. p. 228; where may be seen at large the affecting story of this elegant writer; who, after having been distinguished for every gallant and polite accomplishment, the pattern of his own sex, and the darling of the ladies, died in the lowest wretchedness, obscurity, and want, in 1658.

WHEN love with unconfined wings
Hovers within my gates,
And my divine Althea brings
To whisper at my grates;
When I lye tangled in her haire,
And fetter'd with her eye,
The birds that wanton in the aire
Know no such libertie.

When flowing cups run swiftly round
With no allaying Thames,
Our carelesse heads with roses crown'd,
Our hearts with loyal flames;
When thirsty griefe in wine we steepe,
When healths and drafts goe free,
Fishes that tipple in the deepe,
Know no such libertie.
When, linnet-like, confined I
With shriller note shall sing
The mercye, sweetness, majestye,
And glories, of my king;
When I shall voyce aloud how good
He is, how great should be,

Th' enlarged windes that curle the flood
Know no such libertie.

Stone walls do not a prison make,
Nor iron barres a cage;

Minds innocent and quiet take

That for an hermitage:

If I have freedom in my love,
And in my soul am free,
Angels alone, that soare above,
Enjoy such libertie.

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

A.

Lang maun she weep with dule and sorrow; And lang maun I nae mair weil be seen Puing the birks on the Braes of Yarrow: For she has tint her luver, luver dear,

Her luver dear, the cause of sorrow; And I hae slain the comliest swain

That eir pu'd birks on the Braes of Yarrow. Why rins thy stream, OYarrow, Yarrow reid? Why on thy braes heard the voice of sorrow? And why yon melancholious weids

Hung on the bonny birks of Yarrow? What's yonder floats on the rueful, ruefal Aude?

What's yonder floats? Odule and sorrow! O'tis he, the comely swain I slew

Upon 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,

And 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 wise His hapless fate on the Braes of Yarrow. 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?

And warn from fight? but, to my sorrow,
Too rashly bauld, a stronger armi

Thou mett'st, and fell'st on the Braes of
Yarrow.

Sweet smells the birk, green grows, green
grows the grass,

Yellow on Yarrow's banks the gowan,
Fair 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,

The apple frae its rock as mellow. Fair was thy luve, fair, fair indeed thy luve, In flow'ry bands thou didst him fetter; Though he was fair, and well beluv'd again, Than me he never lov'd thee better. Busk ye, then busk, my bonny bonny bride, Busk busk ye, ye, my winsome marrow, Busk ye, and luve me on the banks of Tweed, And think nae mairon the Braes of Yarrow. B. How can I busk a bonny bonny bride?

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