But trust me, Percy, pity it were, Let thou and I the battle try, And fet our men afide. By whom this is denied. That e'er my captain fought on foot, Yet I will do the best I may, While I have power to stand; While I have pow'r to wield my fword, Ill fight with heart and hand. Our English archers bent their bows, Their hearts were good and true; At the first flight of arrows fent, Full threefcore Scots they flew. To drive the deer with hound and horn, They clos'd full fat on everv fide, O Chrift! it was a grief to fee, And fcattered here and there. At laft thefe two ftout Earls did meet, And made a crue! fight: They fought until they both did fweat, Thy ranfom I will freely give, And thus report of thee, No, Douglas, quoth Earl Percy then, That ever yet was born. With that, there came an arrow keen Out of an English bow, Which Bruck Earl Douglas to the heart, A deep and deadly blow: Who never spoke more words than thefe, Then leaving life, Ear! Percy took O Chrift my very heart doth bleed A knight amongst the Scots there was, Sir Hugh Mountgomery was he call'd, Ran fiercely through the fight; He thrust his hatefui fpear: With fuck a vehement force and might The fpear went through the other fide The noble Earl was flain; He had a bow bent in his hand, This fight did laft from break of day, For when they rung the evening-bell, With brave Earl Percy, there was flain Sir Robert Ratcliff, and Sir John, Sir James that bold baron: And with Sir George and flout Sir James, For Witherington needs must I wail, And with Earl Douglas, there was slain Sir Charles Murray, that from.the field One foot would never fee. Sir Charles Murray, of Ratcliff, too, And the Lord Maxwell in like cafe Of fifteen hundred Englishmen, They wafh'd their wounds in brinish tears, Their bodies bath'd in purple gore, They bare with them away; O heavy news, King James did fay, I have not any captain more Like tidings to King Henry came, Was flain in Chevy-Chase: Now God be with him, faid our king, I trust I have, within my realm, Five hundred good as he: Yet fhall not Scot nor Scotland fay, I'll be revenged on them all, For brave Eri Percy's lake. In one day, fitty knights were flain, And of the reft, of small account, Thus endeth the hunting of Chevy-Chafe, God fave the king, and bless this land SONG 847. Written by the CURATE of CRAMAN. YE fhepherds and nymphs of the plain, Your pritimes a moment forego, And kindly attend to my train; Ye vallies, where often I've stray'd, Furbear when I'm gone to lament. But you, who can nature controw!, And hear of my death without smart. Oh, Laura! a name ever dear, Which once could difpel ev'ry care, Now heaveft the heart-throbbing tear, And wring't my fad foul with despair. By vows and by love you are mine, O ever adorable maid! But tyranny bids me refign, And tyranny must be obey'd. When far from thy fame I am drove, I'll tell the deaf waves of our wrong; Each gale fhall figh deep with our love, Till hoary death filence my tongue. SILVIA. Your words are like charms, They foothe away harms, So go, I'm determin'd, and will; (Nor danger I'll fear, If Damon is near ;) But hear the foft flow of yon rill! O grant that our tempers as smoothly may flow, Our lives ever after difturb'd not by woe. DAMON. Hence, hence, ye vain fears, Sighs, fobbings, and tears, Ye can't with my Silvia agree; Nor ftrive to moleft, Her bofom beats reft, Befides a mind easy and free: Like the dove to her mate; oh! ever be true: A fig for vaft riches! I care not for you. SILVIA. The fparrow and dove Are emblems of love, Like them I'H be conftant and kind; To his leaving the skies, Our lambkins at pafture I'll mind: To increase our fmali ftore, induftr'ous I'll prove, And study, fond youth, to deserve all thy love. Воти. Ye nymphs and ye fwains, While meadows look blooming and gay; And Damon's fo too, Each breaft feels the glowing of May! To church let us go, defpifing all care, For none are fo happy as those who go there. SONG 849. OLD Saturn, that drone of a god, And father of all the divine, Still govern'd the world with a nod, Yet fancy'd brifk women and wine; And when he was whimsical grown, By fipping his plentiful bowl, Then frankly the truth he wou'd own, That a wench was the joy of his foul. Great Jupiter, like his old dad, To love and a bottle inclin'd, When mellow was conftantly glad To find a plump girl to his mind; And then, as the ftory is told, He'd conjure himself in her arms, As once in a fhower of gold He rifled fair Danäe's charms. Stern Mars, the great god of the field, All day tho' delighting in blood, At night his fierce godfhip would yield To beauty, and wine that was good : With nectar he'd cherish his heart, And raise up his wanton defires; Then to Venus, his darling, impart The warmth of his amorous fires. Apollo, the patron of bays, Full goblets would merrily drain, And fing forth poetical lays, When the fumes had got into his brain. But ftill as he whimifical grew, By toping the juice of the vine, To Parnaffus daily he flew, To kifs all the mufical nine. Sly Mercury too, like the rest, Made wenching and wine his delight, And thought himself perfectly bleft With a bottle and mistress at nights No wonder debauches he lov'd, And cheating his pleasure he made, That pimping was always his trade. He'd bawl for the finishing glass; When drunk, then the veffel would quit, And reel to his fav'rite lafs. YE winds, to whom Colin complains He's wretched, to fhew he has wit. And this is fome pretty new art: Ah! Colin's a juggler in love, And likes to play tricks with my heart. When he will, he can figh and look pale, Seem doleful and alter his face, Can tremble, and breathe out his tale; Ah! Colin has every pace. The willow my rover prefers To the breasts where he once begg'd to lie; And the ftreams that he fwells with his tears, Are rivals belov'd more than I. His head my fond bofom would bear, And my heart would foon beat him to reft; Let the fwain that is flighted defpair, But Colin is only in jest. No death the deceiver defigns, Let the maid that is ruin'd defpair; And gives himfelf that modifh air. A face that is fairer than mine. Where thou but pretendeft to weep. Of the violet, daify, and rofe, The heart's-eafe, the lily, and pink, How oft, my dear fwain, did I fwear, That thy arms were a palace to me; And how well I could live in a shade, Tho' adorned with nothing but thee? Oh! what are the fparks of the town, Tho' never fo fine and fo gay? I ficely would leave beds of down, Again make me happy in love; SONG 852. Written by the Earl of DORSET. TO all you ladies now at land We men at fea indite; But first would have you understand The mufes now, and Neptune too, Think not we are unkind, By Dutchmen, or by wind; Our fac and dismal story, Let wind and weather do it's worft, Be you to us but kind, Let Dutchmen vapour, Spaniards curfe, To pafs our tedious hours away, We throw a merry main; Or elfe at ferious Ombre play, But why fhould we in vain, But now our fears tempestuous grow, When any mournful tune you hear, As if it figh'd with each man's care, Think then how often love we've made In juffice you cannot refufe To think of our distress, All thofe defigns are but to prove SONG 853. O'ER the bowl we'll laugh and fing; Fill it landlord, let's be gay. Now's the time to baffle care; The' we're mortal now on earth, Let us fancy heaven here. Happiness alone purfue; Where is more than dwells in wine! Each full bumper gives a new Pleasure to the theme divine. Why should man, with forrow pining, Lote a life of joy and eafe, When his blifs is still refining In fublime delights like thefe. Low as the languor-breathing dove, Deep as fome bleeding lovers !ay; A nobler gale now sweeps the wire, The hollow frame refponfive rings; Loud as when angels ftrike the lyre, Sweet as the heav'nly chorus fings. And hark! the numbers roll along, Majestically, fmooth, and clear; Like Philomel's enchanting fong, The notes mellifluous pierce the ear. Thus, as the varying accents flow, Each paffion feels th' accordant found; This lifts the foul, that finks it low; We feem to tread on fairy ground. |