Till I prick'd my foot

With an Hebrew root,

That I bled beyond all measure.
Boldly I preach, &c.

I appear'd before the archbishop'
And all the high commission;

I gave him no grace,

But told him to his face,

That he favour'd superstition.

Boldly I preach, hate a cross, hate a surplice,
Mitres, copes, and rochets :

Come hear me pray nine times a day,
And fill your heads with crotchets.

XIX.

-is given from an old printed copy in the British Museum, compared with another in the Pepys collection; both in black letter.

GRIM king of the ghosts, make haste,

And hug me close in your arms;

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,

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 wedd 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

Distraction I see is my doom, Of this I am now too sure; 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, 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.

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,
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,
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
To ruin a lover? I cry.

-was originally sung in one of Tom D'Urfey's comedies of Don Quixote, acted 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. 1. 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, To win dear Strephon, who my soul enjoys.

Or, if more influencing

Is to be brisk and airy,

5

Ah! 'tis in vain! 'tis all, 'tis all in vain!
Death aud 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 :
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 Among the foaming billows? Increasing all with tears I shed,

On beds of ooze, and crystal pillows, Lay down, lay down my love-sick head?

No, no, I'll strait run mad, mad, mad;
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!
A thousand, thousand times I'll dye

Ere thus, thus in vain,-ere thus in vain adore.

21

25

33

30

35

I'll charm, like beauty's goddess.

The

-was written by Henry Carey, a celebrated composer of music at the beginning of the eighteenth century, and author of several little Theatrical Entertainments, which the reader may find enumerated in the " Companion to the Play-house," &c. 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,
From her disdain I fly;

She is the cause of all my pain,
For her alone I die.

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, lilliburlero,' 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 King James II. to the lieutenancy of Ireland in 1686, on account of his being a furious papist, who had recommended himself to his bigoted master by his arbitrary treatment of the protestants in the preceding year, when only lieutenant general, and

40

35

-was written by William Hamilton, of Bangour, Esq. who died March 25, 1754, 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. A. BUSK ye, busk ye, my bonny bonny bride, Busk ye, busk ye, my winsome marrow, Busk ye, busk ye, my bonny bonny bride,

And think nae mair on the Braes of Yarrow.

For she has tint 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! 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,
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.

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.

Ver. 43, What follows is not in some copies.

30

દર

40

-was a Party Song written by the ingenious author of "Leonidas" 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

An ingenious correspondent informs the Editor, that this Ballad hath been also attributed to the late Lord Bath.

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