Chapter XVIII: Book III: I (3)

[Fuller has left us the following anecdote of Sir Walter Mildmay, the founder of Emanuel, in his _History of the University of Cambridge_. "Coming to court after he had founded his college, the queen told him, 'Sir Walter, I hear you have erected a Puritan foundation.' 'No madam,' saith he, 'far be it from me to countenance anything contrary to your established laws; but I have set an acorn, which, when it becomes an oak, God alone knows what will be the fruit thereof.'"]

[868] Alluding to some visionary exposition of Zech. ch. v. ver. 1; or, if the date of this song would permit, one might suppose it aimed at one _Coppe_, a strange enthusiast, whose life may be seen in Wood's _Athen._ vol. ii. p. 501. He was author of a book, intitled, _The Fiery Flying Roll_: and afterwards published a Recantation, part of whose title is, _The Fiery Flying Roll's Wings clipt_, &c.

[869] See Greenham's _Works_, fol. 1605, particularly the tract intitled, _A sweet Comfort for an afflicted Conscience_.

[Richard Greenham was born _circa_ 1531 and died in 1591. He was a singularly ardent preacher, and Brook, in his _Lives of the Puritans_, says, that "in addition to his public ministerial labours he had a remarkable talent for comforting afflicted consciences." His _Works_ were first collected in 1599.]

[870] See Perkin's _Works_, fol. 1616, vol. i. p. 11; where is a large half sheet folded, containing, _A survey, or table, declaring the order of the causes of salvation and damnation, &c._ the pedigree of damnation being distinguished by a broad black zig-zag line.

[William Perkins (1558-1602). Brook says of him, that he used to pronounce the word _damn_ with so peculiar an emphasis "that it left a doleful echo in the eares a long time after." His works were frequently reprinted, and, according to Fuller, were translated into Latin, French, Dutch, and Spanish.]

[871] Abp. Laud.

XIX.

THE LUNATIC LOVER,

MAD SONG THE THIRD,

Is given 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, 5
And 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: 10
I'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, 15
And down to the shades below.

A lunacy sad I endure,
Since reason departs away;
I call to those hags for a cure
As knowing not what I say. 20
The 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 about 25
To 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; 30
A 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, 35
Expecting to find her there.
Methinks in a spangled cloud
I 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, 45
In sorrow I sigh and weep;
The clouds are my canopy
To cover me while I sleep.

I dream that my charming fair
Is then in my rival's bed, 50
Whose tresses of golden hair
Are on the fair pillow bespread.
Then this doth my passion inflame
I start, and no longer can lie:
Ah! Sylvia, art thou not to blame 55
To ruin a lover? I cry.

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

XX.

THE LADY DISTRACTED WITH LOVE,

MAD SONG THE FOURTH,

Was originally sung in one of _Tom D'urfey's_ comedies of _Don Quixote_ in 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's _Pills 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 move
With tender passion my heart's darling joy:
Ah! let the soul of musick tune my voice, 5
To win dear Strephon, who my soul enjoys.

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

As once on Ida dancing
Were three celestial bodies:
With an air, and a face,
And a shape, and a grace, 15
I'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: 21
My 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 drown 25
Among 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, 30
That 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! 35
A thousand, thousand times I'll dye
Ere thus, thus, in vain,--ere thus in vain adore.

XXI.

THE DISTRACTED LOVER,

MAD SONG THE FIFTH,

Was written by _Henry 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 the _Companion to the Play-house_, &c. The sprightliness of this songster's fancy could not preserve him from a very melancholy catastrophe, which was effected by his own hand. In his _Poems_, 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, 5
From 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, 10
When 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, 15
Are 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, 25
Quickly bear me
To the dismal shades below!
Where yelling, and howling
And grumbling, and growling
Strike the ear with horrid woe. 30

Hissing snakes,
Fiery lakes
Would be a pleasure, and a cure:
Not all the hells,
Where Pluto dwells, 35
Can 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

XXII.

THE FRANTIC LADY,

MAD SONG THE SIXTH.

This, like Num. XX., was originally sung in one of _D'urfey's_ comedies of _Don Quixote_, (first acted about the year 1694) and was probably composed by that popular songster, who died Feb. 26, 1723.

This is printed in the _Hive, a Collection of Songs_, 4 vols. 1721, 12mo. where may be found two or three other _Mad Songs_ not 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! 5
Bring 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 fell
And mourn now my fate,
Which myself did create: 15
Fool, 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! 20
Since scorn is turn'd into desire.
All hell feels not the rage, which I, poor I, endure.

XXIII.

LILLI BURLERO.

The following 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's _State of the Protestants in Ireland_, 1691, 4to.

This song is attributed to Lord _Wharton_ in a small pamphlet, intitled, _A true relation of the several facts and circumstances of the intended riot and tumult on Q. Elizabeth's birth-day, &c._ 3d. ed. Lond. 1712, pr. 2_d._--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 certain _Lilliburlero Song_; with which, if you will believe himself, he sung a deluded Prince out of Three Kingdoms."

_Lilliburlero_ and _Bullen-a-lah_ are 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 whistling _Lilliburlero_." 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's _Life 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 the Earl
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
of _To all you ladies now on land_ could 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 (_Notes and 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, 5
Lero 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. 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, 15
Lilli, &c.
We'll hang Magna Charta, and dem in a rope.
Lilli, &c.

For de good Talbot is made a lord,
Lilli, &c. 20
And 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. 25
Lilli, &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, 35
Lilli, &c.
Shall be turn out, and look like an ass.
Lilli, &c.

Now, now de hereticks all go down,
Lilli, &c. 40
By 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." 45
Lilli, &c.

And now dis prophesy is come to pass,
Lilli, &c.
For Talbot's de dog, and JA**S is 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.

XXIV.

THE BRAES OF YARROW,

IN IMITATION OF THE ANCIENT SCOTS MANNER,

Was written by William Hamilton, of Bangour, Esq; who died March 25, 1734, aged 50. It is printed from an elegant edition of his _Poems_, 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--_The_
_Dowie Dens_ (melancholy downs) _of Yarrow_, a collated version
of which was first printed by Scott in his _Minstrelsy of the
Scottish Border_. 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_, and _Revisited_.

There are two old ballads which have been much mixed up by
reciters, viz. _The Dowie Dens_ and _Willie's drowned in Yarrow_.
The Rev. John Logan's _Braes of Yarrow_ is 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? 5
Where 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; 10
Nor let thy heart lament to leive
Puing 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 seen 15
Puing 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 seen
Puing 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 swain
That eir pu'd birks on the Braes of Yarrow.

Why rins thy stream, O Yarrow, Yarrow, reid? 25
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 rueful flude?
What's yonder floats? O dule and sorrow! 30
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, 35
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. 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? 45
And warn from fight? but to my sorrow
Too rashly bauld a stronger arm
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 bank the gowan,[880] 50
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, 55
The 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 again
Than 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? 65
How 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, 70
For 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'd 75
He 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 night
He 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, 85
But 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 proud
With cruel, and ungentle scoffin', 90
May bid me seek on Yarrow's Braes
My 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, 95
How 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 yon
Comes in his pale shroud, bleeding after?

Pale as he is, here lay him, lay him down, 105
O 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! 110
Yet 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, 115
No 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.]

XXV.

ADMIRAL HOSIER'S GHOST

Was a party song written by the ingenious author of _Leonidas_,[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 of _Sylvia, or the Country Burial_, 1731. It may
also be found in Walsh's _British Musical Miscellany_, vol. iv.
and in other works of a similar description. The ballads of _Come
and listen to my ditty_ and _Cease, rude Boreas_, were sung to
this tune, which appears to have been always a favourite for 'sea
ditties.'"

In Hannah More's _Life_ (vol. i. p. 405) is the following
interesting note: "I was much amused with hearing old Leonidas
Glover sing his own fine ballad of _Hosier'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 lying
On the gently swelling flood,
At midnight with streamers flying
Our triumphant navy rode;
There while Vernon sate all-glorious 5
From 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; 10
Then 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 clouded 15
Frowning on that hostile shore.

On them gleam'd the moon's wan lustre,
When the shade of Hosier brave
His pale bands was seen to muster
Rising from their watry grave. 20
O'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, 25
I 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 ruin
You now triumph free from fears, 30
When you think on our undoing,
You will mix your joy with tears.

See these mournful spectres sweeping
Ghastly o'er this hated wave,
Whose wan cheeks are stain'd with weeping; 35
These 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 defended
But my orders not to fight.
Oh! that in this rolling ocean 45
I had cast them with disdain,
And obey'd my heart's warm motion
To have quell'd the pride of Spain!

For resistance I could fear none,
But with twenty ships had done 50
What thou, brave and happy Vernon,
Hast atchiev'd with six alone.
Then the bastimentos never
Had our foul dishonour seen,
Nor the sea the sad receiver 55
Of 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, 60
To have fallen, my country crying
He has play'd an English part,
Had been better far than dying
Of a griev'd and broken heart.

Unrepining at thy glory, 65
Thy 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, 70
Wasted with disease and anguish,
Not in glorious battle slain.

Hence with all my train attending
From their oozy tombs below,
Thro' the hoary foam ascending, 75
Here 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 mourning
Shall we roam depriv'd of rest,
If to Britain's shores returning
You neglect my just request;
After this proud foe subduing, 85
When your patriot friends you see,
Think on vengeance for my ruin,
And for England sham'd in me.

FOOTNOTES:

[882] An ingenious correspondent informs the Editor, that this ballad hath been also attributed to the late Lord Bath.

[883] Admiral Vernon's ship.

XXVI.

JEMMY DAWSON.

_James Dawson_ was one of the Manchester rebels, who was hanged, drawn, and quartered, on Kennington-common, in the county of Surrey, July 30, 1746.--This ballad is founded on a remarkable fact, which was reported to have happened at his execution. It was written by the late _William Shenstone_, Esq; soon after the event, and has been printed amongst his posthumous works, 2 vols. 8vo. It is here given from a MS. which contained some small variations from that printed copy.

* * * * *

[Captain James Dawson was one of eight officers belonging to the
Manchester regiment of Volunteers in the service of the young
Chevalier, who were executed on Kennington Common.

The following ballad is founded upon a narrative first published
in a periodical entitled _The Parrot_, Saturday, 2d August, 1746,
three days after the occurrence. In the _Whitehall Evening Post_,
Aug. 7, 1746, the same story is told with the addition, that "upon
enquiry every circumstance was literally true." Another ballad is
said to have been written upon Dawson's fate, and sung about the
streets. It is reprinted in the _European Magazine_, April, 1801,
p. 248, and begins as follows:

"Blow ye bleak winds around my head,
Sooth my heart corroding care, &c."]

* * * * *

Come listen to my mournful tale,
Ye tender hearts, and lovers dear;
Nor will you scorn to heave a sigh,
Nor will you blush to shed a tear

And thou, dear Kitty, peerless maid, 5
Do thou a pensive ear incline;
For thou canst weep at every woe,
And pity every plaint, but mine.

Young Dawson was a gallant youth,
A brighter never trod the plain; 10
And well he lov'd one charming maid,
And dearly was he lov'd again.

One tender maid she lov'd him dear,
Of gentle blood the damsel came,
And faultless was her beauteous form, 15
And spotless was her virgin fame.

But curse on party's hateful strife,
That led the faithful youth astray
The day the rebel clans appear'd:
O had he never seen that day! 20

Their colours and their sash he wore,
And in the fatal dress was found;
And now he must that death endure,
Which gives the brave the keenest wound.

How pale was then his true love's cheek, 25
When Jemmy's sentence reach'd her ear!
For never yet did Alpine snows
So pale, nor yet so chill appear.

With faltering voice she weeping said,
Oh Dawson, monarch of my heart, 30
Think not thy death shall end our loves,
For thou and I will never part.

Yet might sweet mercy find a place,
And bring relief to Jemmy's woes,
O GEORGE, without a prayer for thee 35
My orisons should never close.

The gracious prince that gives him life
Would crown a never-dying flame,
And every tender babe I bore
Should learn to lisp the giver's name. 40

But though, dear youth, thou should'st be dragg'd
To yonder ignominious tree,
Thou shalt not want a faithful friend
To share thy bitter fate with thee.

O then her mourning coach was call'd, 45
The sledge mov'd slowly on before;
Tho' borne in a triumphal car,
She had not lov'd her favourite more.

She followed him, prepar'd to view
The terrible behests of law; 50
And the last scene of Jemmy's woes
With calm and stedfast eye she saw.

Distorted was that blooming face,
Which she had fondly lov'd so long:
And stifled was that tuneful breath, 55
Which in her praise had sweetly sung:

And sever'd was that beauteous neck,
Round which her arms had fondly clos'd:
And mangled was that beauteous breast,
On which her love-sick head repos'd: 60

And ravish'd was that constant heart,
She did to every heart prefer;
For tho' it could his king forget,
'Twas true and loyal still to her.

Amid those unrelenting flames 65
She bore this constant heart to see;
But when 'twas moulder'd into dust,
Now, now, she cried, I'll follow thee.

My death, my death alone can show
The pure and lasting love I bore: 70
Accept, O heaven, of woes like ours,
And let us, let us weep no more.

The dismal scene was o'er and past,
The lover's mournful hearse retir'd;
The maid drew back her languid head, 75
And sighing forth his name, expir'd.

Tho' justice ever must prevail,
The tear my Kitty sheds is due;
For seldom shall she hear a tale
So sad, so tender, and so true. 80

THE END OF THE THIRD BOOK.

APPENDIX.