XI. THE CHARACTER OF A HAPPY LIFE. This little moral poem was writ by Sir Henry Wotton, who died Provost of Eaton in 1659, æt. 72. It is printed from a little collection of his pieces, entitled Reliquia Wottonianæ, 1651, 12m0; compared with one or two other copies. How happy is he born or taught, That serveth not anothers will; Whose armour is his honest thought, And simple truth his highest skill: Whose passions not his masters are ; Whose soul is still prepar'd for death; Not ty'd unto the world with care Of princes ear, or vulgar breath: Who hath his life from rumours freed; Whose conscience is his strong retreat : Whose state can neither flatterers feed, Nor ruine make oppressors great : Who envies none, whom chance doth raise, With a well-chosen book or friend.. This man is freed from servile bands Of hope to rise, or feare to fall; Lord of himselfe, though not of lands; And having nothing, yet hath all. XII. GILDEROY, A FAMOUS Scotch robber, who for daring acts of violence was executed at Edinburgh in 1638, with five of his followers. In Thompson's Orpheus Caledonius is a copy of this ballad, which though corrupt and interpolated, contains the following lines, which appear to be of genuine antiquity :— "The Queen of Scots possessed nought, That my love let me want: For cow and ew to me he brought, And ein whan they were scant." The version of "Gilderoy" here given to the reader is printed from a written copy. GILDEROY was a bonnie boy, Had roses tull his shoone, To see sae trim a boy; My handsome Gilderoy. Oh! sike twa charming een he had, He gain'd the luve of ladies gay, Nane eir tull him was coy: Ah! wae is mee! I mourn the day For my dear Gilderoy. My Gilderoy and I were born, Baith in one toun together, We scant were seven years beforn, We gan to luve each other; Our dadies and our mammies thay, Were fill'd wi mickle joy, To think upon the bridal day, Twixt me and Gilderoy. For Gilderoy that luve of mine, Gude faith, I freely bought A wedding sark of holland fine, Wi' silken flowers wrought: And he gied me a wedding ring, Which I receiv'd wi' joy, Nae lad nor lassie eir could sing, Like me and Gilderoy. Wi' mickle joy we spent our prime, Till we were baith sixteen, Among the leaves sae green; And sweetly kiss and toy, My handsome Gilderoy. Oh! that he still had been content, His courage bauld would try; For my dear Gilderoy. And when of me his leave he tuik, I gave tull him a parting luik, Nane eir durst meet him man to man, He was sae brave a boy; At length wi' numbers he was tane, Wae worth the loun that made the laws, To hang a man for gear, To 'reave of life for ox or ass, For sheep, or horse, or mare: Had not their laws been made sae strick, I neir had lost my joy, Wi' sorrow neir had wat my cheek, For my dear Gilderoy. Giff Gilderoy had done amisse, He mought hae banisht been; To hang sike handsome men : As thee, my Gilderoy. Of Gilderoy sae fraid they were, They bound him mickle strong, They hung him high aboon the rest, Thair dyed the youth whom I lued best, Thus having yielded up his breath, I bare his corpse away, Wi' tears, that trickled for his death, XIII-WINIFREDA, THIS beautiful address to conjugal love, a subject too much neglected by the libertine Muses, was first printed in a volume of Miscellaneous Poems, by several hands, published by D. Lewis, 1726, 8vo. It is there said, how truly I know not, to be a translation "from the ancient British language." AWAY; let nought to love displeasing, Our name, while virtue thus we tender, And all the great ones, they shall wonder Still shall each returning season Sufficient for our wishes give ; And that's the only life to live. Through youth and age in love excelling, Our And babes, sweet-smiling babes, our bed. How should I love the pretty creatures, While round my knees they fondly clung; To see them look their mothers features, To hear them lisp their mothers tongue. What though from fortune's lavish bounty | And when with envy time transported No mighty treasures we possess ; We'll find within our pittance plenty, And be content without excess, Shall think to rob us of our joys, XIV. THE WITCH OF WOKEY WAS published in a small collection of poems, entitled Euthemia, or the Power of Harmony, etc., 1756, written, in 1748, by the ingenious Dr. Harrington, of Bath, who never allowed them to be published, and withheld his name till it could no longer be concealed. The following copy was furnished by the late Mr. Shenstone, with some variations and corrections of his own, which he had taken the liberty to propose, and for which the author's indulgence was entreated. Wokey-hole is a noted cavern near Wells, in Somersetshire, which has given birth to as many wild fanciful stories as the Sybils Cave, in Italy. It goes winding a great way underground, is crossed by a stream of very cold water, and is all horrid with broken pieces of rock: many of these are evident petrifactions; which, on account of their singular forms, have given rise to the fables alluded to in this poem. IN aunciente days tradition showes The Witch of Wokey hight: Deep in the dreary dismall cell, This blear-eyed hag did hide : Here screeching owls oft made their nest, No wholesome herb could here be found; And blister'd every flock. Her haggard face was foull to see; Her eyne of deadly leer, She nought devis'd, but neighbour's ill; L |