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But trust me, Percy, pity it were,
And great offence to kill
Any of thefe our harmlets men,
For they have done no ill.

Let thou and I the battle try,

And fet our men afide.
Accurs'd be he, Lord Percy faid,

By whom this is denied.
Then ftept a gallant fquire forth,
Witherington was his name,
Who faid, I would not have it told
To Henry our king for fhame,

That e'er my captain fought on foot,
And I ftood looking on.
You be two Earls, faid Witherington,
And I a fquire alone;

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,
Earl Douglas had the bent;
Two captains mov'd with mickle pride,
Their fpears to shivers went.

They clos'd full fat on everv fide,
No flackness there was found;
And many a gallant gentleman
Lay gafping on the ground.

O Chrift! it was a grief to fee,
And likewife for to hear,
The cries of men lying in their gore,

And fcattered here and there.

At laft thefe two ftout Earls did meet,
Like captains of great might:
As lions wou'd, they laid on load,

And made a crue! fight:

They fought until they both did fweat,
With fwords of temper'd feel;
Until the blood, like drops of ain,
They trickling down did feel.
Yield thee, Lord Percy, Douglas faid;
In faith I will thee bring,
Where thou shalt high advanced be
By James our Scottish king:

Thy ranfom I will freely give,

And thus report of thee,
Thou art the most courageous knight
That ever I did fee.

No, Douglas, quoth Earl Percy then,
Thy proffer I do fcorn;
I will not yield to any Scot

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,
Fight on, my merry men all;
For why, my life is at an end;
Lord Percy fees my fall.

Then leaving life, Ear! Percy took
The dead man by the hand;
And faid, Earl Douglas, for thy life
Would I had left my land!

O Chrift my very heart doth bleed
With forrow for thy fake;
For fure, a more renowned knight
Mifchance did never take.

A knight amongst the Scots there was,
Which faw Earl Douglas die,
Who ftraight in wrath did vow revenge
Upon the Lord Percy:

Sir Hugh Mountgomery was he call'd,
Who, with a fpear moft bright,
Well mounted on a gallant fteed,

Ran fiercely through the fight;
And paft the English archers all,
Without all dread or fear;
And thro' Earl Percy's body then

He thrust his hatefui fpear:

With fuck a vehement force and might
He did his body gore,

The fpear went through the other fide
A large cloth-yard, and more.
So thus did both thefe nobles die,
Whofe courage none could ftain:
An English archer then perceiv'd

The noble Earl was flain;

He had a bow bent in his hand,
Made of a trusty tree;
An arrow of a cloth-yard long
Up to the head drew he:
Again Sir Hugh Mountgomery,
So right the fhaft he fet,
The grey goofe-wing that was thereon,
In his heart's blood was wet.

This fight did laft from break of day,
Till fetting of the fun;

For when they rung the evening-bell,
The battle fcarce was done.

With brave Earl Percy, there was flain
Sir John of Egerton,

Sir Robert Ratcliff, and Sir John,

Sir James that bold baron:

And with Sir George and flout Sir James,
Both knights of good account,
Good Sir Ralph Raby there was flain,
Whofe prowess did furmount.

For Witherington needs must I wail,
As one in doleful dumps;
For when his legs were fmitten off,
He fought upon his stumps.

And with Earl Douglas, there was slain
Sir Hugh Mountgomery;

Sir Charles Murray, that from.the field One foot would never fee.

Sir Charles Murray, of Ratcliff, too,
His fifter's fon was he;
Sir David Lamb, fo well efteem'd,
Yet faved could not be.

And the Lord Maxwell in like cafe
Did with Earl Douglas nie:
Of twenty hundred Scottish peers,
Scarce fifty-five did fly.

Of fifteen hundred Englishmen,
Went home but fitty-three;
The reft were flain in Chevy-Chase,
Under the green-wood tree.
Next day did many widows come,
Their husbands to bewail;

They wafh'd their wounds in brinish tears,
But all would not prevail.

Their bodies bath'd in purple gore,

They bare with them away;
They kifs'd them dead a thousand times,
When they were clad in clay.
This news was brought to Edinburgh,
Where Scotland's king did reign,
That brave Earl Douglas fuddenly
Was with an arrow flain:

O heavy news, King James did fay,
Scotland can witnefs be,

I have not any captain more
Of fuch account as he.

Like tidings to King Henry came,
Within as horta fpace,
That Percy of Northumberland

Was flain in Chevy-Chase:

Now God be with him, faid our king,
Sith 'twill no better be;

I trust I have, within my realm,

Five hundred good as he:

Yet fhall not Scot nor Scotland fay,
But I will vengeance take;.

I'll be revenged on them all,

For brave Eri Percy's lake.
This vow full well the king perform'd
After, at Humbledown;

In one day, fitty knights were flain,
With lords of great renown:

And of the reft, of small account,
Did many thousands die.

Thus endeth the hunting of Chevy-Chafe,
Made by the Earl Percy.

God fave the king, and bless this land
In plenty, jov, and peace;
And grant henceforth, that foul debate
'Twixt noblemen may ceafe.

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;
Your pity will foften my woe!

Ye vallies, where often I've stray'd,
To taste the mild breath of the morn,
And raptur'd have met my chafte maid,
I leave you, no more to return.
Sweet echo! no more from thy bed
I'll roufe thee to hail the new day ;
Some happier fwain in my ftead
Shall wake thee when I'm tar away:
Ana
the fad caufe of my woe,
you,
My parents, who know all my plaint,
Who force me reluctant to go,

Furbear when I'm gone to lament.

But you, who can nature controw!,
And check the foft pulfe of the heart,
Can fide the voice of the foul,

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.

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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;
From Phoebus's rife,

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,
Come dance on the plains,

While meadows look blooming and gay;
Sweet Silvia is true,

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,
For the gods have ev'ry one prov'd,

That pimping was always his trade.
Plump Bacchus, that tun-belly'd fot,
His thirst could but seldom allay,
Till aftride o'er a hogshead he got,
And drank all the liquor away:
As long as upright he could fit,

He'd bawl for the finishing glass; When drunk, then the veffel would quit, And reel to his fav'rite lafs.

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YE winds, to whom Colin complains
In dit les fo fad and fo fweet,
Believe me, the thepherd bu. feigns

He's wretched, to fhew he has wit.
No charmer like Colin can move,

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;
For Colin but dies in his lines,

And gives himfelf that modifh air.
Can fhepherds, bred far from the court,
So wittily talk of their flame?
But Colin makes paffion his (port;
Beware of fo fatal a game.
My voice of no mufic can boaft,
Nor my perfon of aught that is fine;
But Colin may find, to his cost,

A face that is fairer than mine.
Ah! then will I break my lov'd crook,
To thee I'll bequeath all my sheep;
And die in the much-favour'd brook,

Where thou but pretendeft to weep.
Then mourn the fad fate that you gave,
In fonnets fo fmooth and divine;
Perhaps I may rife from my grave,
To hear fuch foft mufic as thine.

Of the violet, daify, and rofe,

The heart's-eafe, the lily, and pink,
Let thy fingers a garland compofe,
And crown'd by the rivulet's brink;

How oft, my dear fwain, did I fwear,
How much my fond foul did admire
Thy verfes, thy fhape, and thy air,
Tho' deck'd in thy rural attire!
Your sheep-hook you rul'd with such art,
That all your fmall fubjects obey'd;
And ftill you reign'd king of this heart,
Whofe paffion you falfely upbraid.
How often, my fwain, have I faid,

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,
For thy breaft, and a sed of new hay.
Then, Colin, return once again,

Again make me happy in love;
Let me find thee a faithful, true swain,
And as constant a nymph I will prove.

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
How hard it is to write;

The mufes now, and Neptune too,
We must implore to write to you.
For tho' the mufes fhould prove kind,
And fill our empty brain,
Yet if rough Neptune rouze the wind,
To wave the azure main,
Our paper, pen, and ink, and we,
Roll up and down our fhips at fea.
Then if we write not by each poft,

Think not we are unkind,
Nor yet conclude our fhips are loft

By Dutchmen, or by wind;
Our tears we'll fend a speedier way,
The tide thall bring them twice a day.
The king, with wonder and furprize,
Will fwear the feas grow bold,
Because the tides will higher rife
Than e'er they did of old:
But let him know, it is our tears
Bring floods of grief to Whitehall-stairs.
Shou'd foggy Opdam chance to know

Our fac and dismal story,
The Dutch would fcorn fo weak a foe,
And quit their fort at Goree;
For what refiftance can they find
From men who've left their hearts behind?

Let wind and weather do it's worft,

Be you to us but kind,

Let Dutchmen vapour, Spaniards curfe,
No forrow we shall find;
"Tis then no matter how things go,
Or who's our friend, or who's our foe.

To pafs our tedious hours away,

We throw a merry main; Or elfe at ferious Ombre play,

But why fhould we in vain,
Each other's ruin thus purfue?
We were undone when we left you!

But now our fears tempestuous grow,
And caft our hopes away,
Whilft you, regardless of our woe,
Sit carelefs at a play;
Perhaps permit fome happier man
To kits your hand, or flirt your fan.

When any mournful tune you hear,
That dies in ev'ry note,

As if it figh'd with each man's care,
For being fo remote;

Think then how often love we've made
To you, when all thofe tunes were play'd.

In juffice you cannot refufe

To think of our distress,
When we for hopes of honour, lofe
Our certain happiness;

All thofe defigns are but to prove
Ourfelves more worthy of your love.
And now we've told you all our loves,
And likewife all our fears;
In hopes this declaration moves
Some pity from your tears;
Let's hear of no inconftancy,
We have too much of that at fea.

SONG 853.

O'ER the bowl we'll laugh and fing;
Melancholy, hence away!
Ring, ring, the bowl is empty;

Fill it landlord, let's be gay.
Roufe, ye genial fons of mirth!

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.

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Low as the languor-breathing dove,
That lonesome cooes her plaintive tale.
Hark! what founds of pleafing pain,

Deep as fome bleeding lovers !ay;
Sad as the cyguets moving train,
When on the fore he dies away.

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.

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