Here the baftimentos viewing, We recal our, fshameful doom, O'er thefe waves for ever mourning When your patriot friends you fee, Think on vengeance for my ruin, And for England sham'd in me. 85 XXVI, JEMMY DAWSON,' JAMES DAWSON was one of the Manchefter rebels, wha 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, Efq; foon after the event, and has been printed among ft his pofthumous works, 2 vols. 8vo. It is bere given from a MS. which contained fome Small variations from that printed copy. COME COME SOME liften to my mournful tale, Nor will you blush to shed a tear. And thou, dear Kitty, peerless maid, Young Dawson was a gallant youth, One tender maid fhe lov'd him dear, But curfe on party's hateful ftrife, The day the rebel clans appear'd: O had he never seen that day! Their colours and their fash he wore, And now he must that death endure, Which gives the brave the keenest wound. How pale was then his true love's check, 25 With faltering voice the weeping faid, Oh Dawfon, monarch of my heart, Think not thy death shall end our loves, For thou and I will never part. 30 Yet might sweet mercy find a place, And bring relief to Jemmy's woes, O GEORGE, without a prayer for thee 35 The gracious prince that gives him life And every tender babe I bore Should learn to lifp 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 fhare thy bitter fate with thee, O then her mourning-coach was call'd, 45 Tho' borne in a triumphal car, She had not lov'd her favourite more, She She followed him, prepar'd to view Distorted was that blooming face, Which she had fondly lov'd fo long: And ftifled was that tuneful breath, Which in her praise had sweetly fung: 50 . 55 And fever'd was that beauteous neck, Round which her arms had fondly clos'd: And ravish'd was that constant heart, 60 Amid those unrelenting flames 65 She bore this conftant heart to fee; But when 'twas moulder'd into dust, Now, now, fhe cried, I'll follow thee. My death, my death alone can show The pure and lasting love I bore: Accept, O heaven, of woes like ours, And let us, let us weep no more. 70 The dismal scene was o'er and past, The lover's mournful hearse retir'd ; The maid drew back her languid head, And fighing forth his name, expir'd. Tho' juftice ever must prevail, The tear my Kitty fheds is due; For feldom fhall she hear a tale So fad, fo tender, and so true. THE END OF THE THIRD BOOK A GLOS |