"" I never was on English ground,
Ne never sawe it with mine eye,
But as my book it sheweth mee,

130

And through my ring I may descrye.

"My mother shee was a witch ladye,
And of her skille she learned mee;
She wold let me see out of Lough-leven
What they did in London citìe."
"But who is yond, thou lady faire,

That looketh with sic an austerne face ?"

135

"Yonder is Sir John Foster," quoth shee,
"Alas! he'll do ye sore disgrace."

140

He pulled his hatt down over his browe;

He wept, in his heart he was full of woe;

And he is gone to his noble lord,

Those sorrowful tidings him to show.

"Now nay, now nay, good James Swynàrd,
I may not believe that witch ladìe;

145

The Douglasses were ever true,

And they can ne'er prove false to mee.

"I have now in Lough-leven been

The most part of these years three,
Yett have I never had noe outrake,
Ne no good games that I cold see.
"Therefore I'll to yond shooting wend,
As to the Douglas I have hight:
Betide me weale, betide me woe,

He ne'er shall find my promise light."

He writhe a gold ring from his finger,
And gave itt to that gay ladie:
Sayes, "It was all that I cold save,

In Harley woods where I cold bee." 9

"And wilt thou goe, thou noble Lord?
Then farewell truth and honestìe,
And farewell heart, and farewell hand,
For never more I shall thee see."

150

155

160

8 Warden of the middle March. 9 i. e. Where I was: an ancient idiom.

The wind was faire, the boatmen call'd,
And all the saylors were on borde;
Then William Douglas took to his boat,
And with him went that noble lord.

Then he cast up a silver wand,

Says, "Gentle lady, fare thee well!"

The lady fett a sigh soe deep,

And in a dead swoone down shee fell.

"Now let us goe back, Douglas," he sayd,
"A sickness hath taken yond faire ladìe;
If ought befall yond lady but good,
Then blamed for ever I shall bee."

"Come on, come on, my Lord," he sayes,
"Come on, come on, and let her bee;
There's ladyes enow in Lough-leven
For to cheere that gay ladie."

"If you'll not turne yourself, my Lord,
Let me goe with my chamberlaine;

We will but comfort that faire lady,
And wee will return to you againe."

165

170

175

180

"Come on, come on, my Lord," he sayes,
"Come on, come on, and let her bee;
My sister is craftye, and wold beguile
A thousand such as you and mee."

1

When they had sayled fifty myle,
Now fifty mile upon the sea,

Hee sent his man to ask the Douglas,
When they shold that shooting see.

"Faire words," quoth he, "they make fooles faine,
And that by thee and thy lord is seen;

You may hap to think itt soon enough,
Ere you that shooting reach, I ween."

185

190

195

1 There is no navigable stream between Lough-leven and the sea: but a ballad-maker is not obliged to understand geography.

Jamye his hatt pulled over his browe,
He thought his lord then was betray'd;
And he is to Erle Percy againe,

To tell him what the Douglas sayd.

"Hold upp thy head, man," quoth his lord, "Nor therefore lett thy courage fayle;

He did it but to prove thy heart,

To see if he cold make it quail."

When they had other fifty sayld,

Other fifty mile upon the sea,

Lord Percy called to Douglas himselfe,

Sayd, "What wilt thou nowe doe with mee ?” "Looke that your brydle be wight, my Lord,

200

205

And your horse goe swift as shipp att sea; Looke that your spurres be bright and sharpe, That you may pricke her while she'll away." "What needeth this, Douglas?" he sayth; "What needest thou to flyte with mee? For I was counted a horseman good Before that ever I mett with thee.

"A false Hector hath my horse,

Who dealt with mee so treacherouslìe; A false Armstrong he hath my spurres, And all the geere belongs to mee.'

دو

When they had sayled other fifty mile,
Other fifty mile upon
the sea,
They landed low by Berwicke side,

A deputed 'laird' landed Lord Percye.

Then he at Yorke was doomde to dye,

It was, alas! a sorrowful sight; Thus they betrayed that noble earle, Who ever was a gallant wight.

V. 224. fol. MS. reads land, and has not the following stanza

210

215

220

225

V.

My Mind to me a Kingdom is.

This excellent philosophical song appears to have been famous in the sixteenth century. It is quoted by Ben Jonson in his play of Every Man out of His humour, first acted in 1599, act i. sc. 1, where an impatient person says,

"I am no such pil'd cynique to believe
That beggery is the onely happinesse,
Or, with a number of these patient fooles,
To sing, 'My minde to me a kingdome is,'

When the lanke hungrie belly barkes for foode."

It is here chiefly printed from a thin quarto music-book, entitled "Psalmes, Sonets, and Songs of Sadness and Pietie made into Musicke of five parts, &c. By William Byrd, one of the Gent. of the Queenes Majesties Honorable Chappell. Printed by Thomas East," &c., 4to, no date: but Ames, in his Typog., has mentioned another edition of the same book, dated 1588, which I take to have been later than this.

Some improvements, and an additional stanza (sc. the 5th) were had from two other ancient copies; one of them in black letter, in the Pepys Collection, thus inscribed, "A sweet and pleasant Sonet, intitled My Mind to me a Kingdom is. To the tune of In Crete," &c.

Some of the stanzas in this poem were printed by Byrd separate from the rest they are here given in what seemed the most natural order.

My minde to me a kingdome is;
Such perfect joy therein I finde
As farre exceeds all earthly blisse,

That God or nature hath assignde :

Though much I want, that most would have,

5

Yet still my mind forbids to crave.

Content I live, this is my stay;

I seek no more than
may suffice
;
I presse to beare no haughtie sway:
Look, what I lack my mind supplies.
Loe! thus I triumph like a king,
Content with that my mind doth bring.

I see how plentie surfets oft,

And hastie clymbers soonest fall;

I see that such as sit aloft

Mishap doth threaten most of all;

10

15

These get with toile, and keep with feare;
Such cares my mind could never beare.

No princely pompe, nor welthie store,
No force to winne the victorie,
No wylie wit to salve a sore,

20

No shape to winne a lovers eye;
To none of these I yeeld as thrall,

For why my mind dispiseth all.

Some have too much, yet still they crave,

25

I little have, yet seek no more:

They are but poore, tho' much they have;
And I am rich with little store.

They poor, I rich; they beg, I give;

30

VOL. I.

They lacke, I lend; they pine, I live.
I laugh not at anothers losse,

I grudge not at anothers gaine;
No worldly wave my mind can tosse,
I brooke that is anothers bane.
I feare no foe, nor fawne on friend;
I loth not life, nor dread mine end.

I joy not in no earthly blisse;

I weigh not Cresus' welth a straw;
For care, I care not what it is;

I feare not fortunes fatall law.
My mind is such as may not move
For beautie bright or force of love.

I wish but what I have at will;
I wander not to seeke for more;

I like the plaine, I clime no hill;

In greatest stormes I sitte on shore,
And laugh at them that toile in vaine
To get what must be lost againe.

I kisse not where I wish to kill;

I faine not love where most I hate;
I breake no sleep to winne my will;

I wayte not at the mighties gate;
I scorne no poore, I feare no rich;
I feele no want, nor have too much.