By Various

Chosen and edited by R. Brimley Johnson

Illustrated By W. C. Cooke In Four Volumes Volume III

1894

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CONTENTS

THE HERMIT

ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF A MAD DOG

THE FRIAR OF ORDERS GRAY

THE DIVERTING HISTORY OF JOHN GILPIN

THE WHISTLE

LAST MAY A BRAW WOOER

JOHN BARLEYCORN

LADY MARY ANN

THE LAIRD O' COCKPEN

THE LIDDEL BOWER

ELLEN IRWIN; OR, THE BRAES OF KIRTLE

THE SEVEN SISTERS; OR, THE SOLITUDE OF BINNORIE

THE FORCE OF PRAYER or, THE FOUNDING OF BOLTON'S PRIORY.

ALBERT GRÆME'S SONG

HAROLD'S SONG

LOCHINVAR

ALICE BRAND

JOCK OF HAZELDEAN

DAVIE GELLATLEY'S SONG

ELSPETH'S BALLAD

THE EVE OF ST. JOHN

THE RIME OF THE ANCIENT MARINER

THE WELL OF ST. KEYNE

ALONZO THE BRAVE AND FAIR IMOGINE

LORD ULLIN'S DAUGHTER

THE BATTLE OF THE BALTIC - 1809

THE WAR-SONG OF DINAS VAWR

THE CAULDRON OF CERIDWEN

LLYN-Y-DREIDDIAD-VRAWD

WILLY AND HELEN

SIR ARTHUR AND LADY ANN

THE FUGITIVES

LA BELLE DAME SANS MERCI

THE ROSE AND THE FAIR LILY

FAITHLESS SALLY BROWN

FAITHLESS NELLY GRAY

THE DREAM OF EUGENE ARAM

THE VOYAGE WITH THE NAUTILUS

THE DOOM-WELL OF ST MADRON

THE ROMAUNT OF THE PAGE

THE ROMANCE OF THE SWAN'S NEST

THE THREE SAILORS

HOW THEY BROUGHT THE GOOD NEWS FROM GHENT TO AIX

COUNT GISMOND

A LOWLAND WITCH BALLAD

THE WEIRD LADY

THE SANDS OF DEE

BALLAD OF EARL HALDAN'S DAUGHTER

A BALLAD FOR A BOY

KEITH OF RAVELSTON

DAFT JEAN

THE YERL O' WATERYDECK

OLD SIR WALTER

SISTER HELEN

THE BLACKBIRD'S SONG

MAIDEN SONG

LOVE FROM THE NORTH

MAUDE CLARE

THE SEVEN FIDDLERS

SIR NICHOLAS AT MARSTON MOOR

THE HERMIT

Turn, gentle hermit of the dale,

And guide my lonely way

To where yon taper cheers the vale

With hospitable ray.

"For here forlorn and lost I tread,

With fainting steps and slow,

Where wilds, immeasurably spread,

Seem length'ning as I go."

"Forbear, my son," the hermit cries,

"To tempt the dangerous gloom;

For yonder faithless phantom flies

To lure thee to thy doom.

Here to the houseless child of want

My door is open still;

And though my portion is but scant,

I give it with good will.

"Then turn to-night, and freely share

Whateer my cell bestows;

My rushy couch and frugal fare,

My blessing and repose.

"No flocks that range the valley free

To slaughter I condemn;

Taught by that Power that pities me,

I learn to pity them:

"But from the mountain's grassy side

A guiltless feast I bring;

A scrip with herbs and fruits supplied,

And water from the spring.

"Then, pilgrim, turn, thy cares forego;

All earth-born cares are wrong:

Man wants but little here below,

Nor wants that little long."

Soft as the dew from heaven descends,

His gentle accents fell:

The modest stranger lowly bends,

And follows to the cell.

Far in a wilderness obscure

The lonely mansion lay—

A refuge to the neighbouring poor,

And strangers led astray.

No stores beneath its humble thatch

Required a master's care;

The wicket, opening with a latch,

Received the harmless pair.

And now, when busy crowds retire

To take their evening rest,

The hermit trimmed his little fire,

And cheered his pensive guest:

And spread his vegetable store,

And gaily pressed and smiled;

And, skilled in legendary lore,

The ling'ring hours beguiled.

Around, in sympathetic mirth,

Its tricks the kitten tries,

The cricket chirrups on the hearth,

The crackling faggot flies.

But nothing could a charm impart

To soothe the stranger's woe;

For grief was heavy at his heart,

And tears began to flow.

His rising cares the hermit spied,

With answering care opprest:

And "Whence, unhappy youth," he cried,

"The sorrows of thy breast?

"From better habitations spurn'd,

Reluctant dost thou rove?

Or grieve for friendship unreturn'd,

Or unregarded love?

"Alas! the joys that fortune brings,

Are trifling, and decay;

And those who prize the paltry things,

More trifling still than they.

"And what is friendship but a name,

A charm that lulls to sleep,

A shade that follows wealth or fame,

But leaves the wretch to weep?

"And love is still an emptier sound,

The modern fair one's jest;

On earth unseen, or only found

To warm the turtle's nest.

"For shame, fond youth, thy sorrows hush,

And spurn the sex," he said;

But while he spoke, a rising blush

His love-lorn guest betray'd.

Surprised he sees new beauties rise,

Swift mantling to the view:

Like colours o er the morning skies,

As bright, as transient too.

The bashful look, the rising breast,

Alternate spread alarms:

The lovely stranger stands confest

A maid in all her charms.

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And, "Ah! forgive a stranger rude—

A wretch forlorn," she cried;

"Whose feet unhallow'd thus intrude

Where Heaven and you reside.

"But let a maid thy pity share,

Whom love has taught to stray;

Who seeks for rest, but finds despair

Companion of her way.

"My father lived beside the Tyne,

A wealthy lord was he;

And all his wealth was mark'd as mine—

He had but only me.

"To win me from his tender arms,

Unnumber'd suitors came,

Who praised me for imputed charms,

And felt, or feigned, a flame.

"Each hour a mercenary crowd

With richest proffers strove;

Amongst the rest, young Edwin bowed,

But never talked of love.

"In humble, simplest habit clad,

No wealth nor power had he;

Wisdom and worth were all he had,

But these were all to me.

"And when beside me in the dale,

He carolled lays of love,

His breath lent fragrance to the gale,

And music to the grove.

"The blossom opening to the day,

The dews of heaven refined,

Could nought of purity display

To emulate his mind.

"The dew, the blossom on the tree,

With charms inconstant shine:

Their charms were his, but, woe to me,

Their constancy was mine.

"For still I tried each fickle art,

Importunate and vain;

And, while his passion touch'd my heart,

I triumphed in his pain:

"Till, quite dejected with my scorn,

He left me to my pride,

And sought a solitude forlorn,

In secret, where he died.

"But mine the sorrow, mine the fault,

And well my life shall pay;

I'll seek the solitude he sought,

And stretch me where he lay.

"And there, forlorn, despairing, hid,

I'll lay me down and die;

'Twas so for me that Edwin did,

And so for him will I."

"Forbid it, Heaven!" the hermit cried,

And clasp'd her to his breast:

The wondering fair one turn'd to chide—

'Twas Edwin's self that prest!

"Turn, Angelina, ever dear,

My charmer, turn to see

Thy own, thy long-lost Edwin here,

Restored to love and thee.

"Thus let me hold thee to my heart,

And every care resign:

And shall we never, never part,

My life,—my all that's mine?

"No, never from this hour to part,

We'll live and love so true—

The sigh that rends thy constant heart

Shall break thy Edwin's too."

——O. Goldsmith.

Good people all, of every sort,

Give ear unto my song;

And if you find it wondrous short,—

It cannot hold you long.

ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF A MAD DOG

In Islington there was a man,

Of whom the world might say,

That still a godly race he ran,—

Whene'er he went to pray.

A kind and gentle heart he had,

To comfort friends and foes;

The naked every day he clad,—

When he put on his clothes.

And in that town a dog was found,

As many dogs there be,

Both mongrel, puppy, whelp, and hound,

And curs of low degree.

This dog and man at first were friends;

But when a pique began,

The dog, to gain some private ends,

Went mad, and bit the man.

Around from all the neighbouring streets

The wondering neighbours ran,

And swore the dog had lost his wits,

To bite so good a man.

The wound it seemed both sore and sad

To every Christian eye;

And while they swore the dog was mad,

They swore the man would die.

But soon a wonder came to light,

That showed the rogues they lied;

The man recovered of the bite,

The dog it was that died.

——O. Goldsmith.

THE FRIAR OF ORDERS GRAY

It was a friar of orders gray

Walkt forth to tell his beades;

And he met with a lady faire

Clad in a pilgrime's weedes.

"Now Christ thee save, thou reverend friar,

I pray thee tell to me,

If ever at yon holy shrine

My true love thou didst see,"

"And how should I know your true love

From many another one?"

"O, by his cockle hat, and staff,

And by his sandal shoone.

"But chiefly by his face and mien,

That were so fair to view;

His flaxen locks that sweetly curl'd,

And eyne of lovely blue."

"O lady, he is dead and gone!

Lady, he's dead and gone!

And at his head a green grass turfe,

And at his heels a stone.

"Within these holy cloysters long

He languisht, and he dyed,

Lamenting of a ladyes love,

And playing of her pride.

"Here bore him barefac'd on his bier

Six proper youths and tall,

And many a tear bedew'd his grave

Within yon kirk-yard wall."

"And art thou dead, thou gentle youth!

And art thou dead and gone!

And didst thou die for love of me!

Break, cruel heart of stone!"

"O weep not, lady, weep not soe:

Some ghostly comfort seek:

Let not vain sorrow rive thy heart,

Ne teares bedew thy cheek."

"O do not, do not, holy friar,

My sorrow now reprove;

For I have lost the sweetest youth,

That e'er wan ladyes love.

"And nowe, alas! for thy sad losse,

I'll evermore weep and sigh:

For thee I only wisht to live,

For thee I wish to dye."

"Weep no more, lady, weep no more,

Thy sorrowe is in vaine:

For violets pluckt the sweetest showers

Will ne'er make grow againe.

"Our joys as winged dreams doe flye,

Why then should sorrow last?

Since grief but aggravates thy losse,

Grieve not for what is past."

"O say not soe, thou holy friar;

I pray thee, say not soe:

For since my true-love dyed for mee,

'Tis meet my tears should flow.

"And will he never come again?

Will he ne'er come again?

Ah! no, he is dead and laid in his grave,

For ever to remain.

"His cheek was redder than the rose;

The comeliest youth was he?

But he is dead and laid in his grave:

Alas, and woe is me!"

"Sigh no more, lady, sigh no more,

Men were deceivers ever:

One foot on sea and one on land,

To one thing constant never.

"Hadst thou been fond, he had been false,

And left thee sad and heavy;

For young men ever were fickle found,

Since summer trees were leafy."

"Now say not soe, thou holy friar,

I pray thee say not soe;

My love he had the truest heart:

O he was ever true!

"And art thou dead, thou much-lov'd youth,

And didst thou dye for mee?

Then farewell home; for ever-more

A pilgrim I will bee.

"But first upon my true-love s grave

My weary limbs I'll lay,

And thrice I'll kiss the green-grass turf,

That wraps his breathless clay."

"Yet stay, fair lady: rest awhile

Beneath this cloyster wall:

See through the hawthorn blows the cold wind,

And drizzly rain doth fall."

"O stay me not, thou holy friar;

O stay me not, I pray;

No drizzly rain that falls on me,

Can wash my fault away."

"Yet stay, fair lady, turn again,

And dry those pearly tears;

For see beneath this gown of gray

Thy owne true-love appears.

"Here forc'd by grief, and hopeless love,

These holy weeds I sought;

And here amid these lonely walls

To end my days I thought.

"But haply for my year of grace

Is not yet past away,

Might I still hope to win thy love,

No longer would I stay."

"Now farewell grief, and welcome joy

Once more unto my heart;

For since I have found thee, lovely youth,

We never more will part."

——T. Percy.

THE DIVERTING HISTORY OF JOHN GILPIN

John Gilpin was a citizen

Of credit and renown,

A train-band captain eke was he,

Of famous London town.

John Gilpin's spouse said to her dear,

"Though wedded we have been

These twice ten tedious years, yet we

No holiday have seen.

"To-morrow is our wedding-day,

And we will then repair

Unto the ( Bell at Edmonton,

All in a chaise and pair.

"My sister, and my sister's child,

Myself, and children three,

Will fill the chaise; so you must ride

On horseback after me."

He soon replied, "I do admire

Of womankind but one,

And you are she, my dearest dear,

Therefore it shall be done.

"I am a linen-draper bold,

As all the world doth know,

And my good friend the calender

Will lend his horse to go."

Quoth Mrs Gilpin, "That's well said;

And for that wine is dear,

We will be furnished with our own,

Which is both bright and clear."

John Gilpin kissed his loving wife;

O'erjoyed was he to find,

That though on pleasure she was bent,

She had a frugal mind.

The morning came, the chaise was brought,

But yet was not allowed

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To drive up to the door, lest all

Should say that she was proud.

So three doors off the chaise was stayed,

Where they did all get in;

Six precious souls, and all agog

To dash through thick and thin.

Smack went the whip, round went the wheels,

Were never folks so glad,

The stones did rattle underneath,

As if Cheapside were mad.

John Gilpin at his horse's side

Seized fast the flowing mane,

And up he got, in haste to ride,

But soon came down again;

For saddle-tree scarce reached had he,

His journey to begin,

When, turning round his head, he saw

Three customers come in.

So down he came; for loss of time,

Although it grieved him sore,

Yet loss of pence, full well he knew,

Would trouble him much more.

'Twas long before the customers

Were suited to their mind,

When Betty screaming came downstairs,

"The wine is left behind!"

"Good lack!" quoth he, "yet bring it me,

My leathern belt likewise,

In which I bear my trusty sword

When I do exercise."

Now Mistress Gilpin (careful soul!)

Had two stone bottles found,

To hold the liquor that she loved,

And keep it safe and sound.

Each bottle had a curling ear,

Through which the belt he drew,

And hung a bottle on each side,

To make his balance true.

Then over all, that he might be

Equipped from top to toe,

His long red cloak, well brushed and neat,

He manfully did throw.

Now see him mounted once again

Upon his nimble steed,

Full slowly pacing o'er the stones,

With caution and good heed.

But finding soon a smoother road

Beneath his well-shod feet,

The snorting beast began to trot,

Which galled him in his seat.

So, "Fair and softly!" John he cried,

But John he cried in vain;

That trot became a gallop soon,

In spite of curb and rein.

So stooping down, as needs he must

Who cannot sit upright,

He grasped the mane with both his hands,

And eke with all his might.

His horse, who never in that sort

Had handled been before,

What thing upon his back had got

Did wonder more and more.

Away went Gilpin, neck or nought;

Away went hat and wig;

He little dreamt, when he set out,

Of running such a rig.

The wind did blow, the cloak did fly

Like streamer long and gay,

Till, loop and button failing both,

At last it flew away.

Then might all people well discern

The bottles he had slung;

A bottle swinging at each side,

As hath been said or sung.

The dogs did bark, the children screamed,

Up flew the windows all;

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And every soul cried out, "Well done!

As loud as he could bawl.

Away went Gilpin—who but he?

His fame soon spread around;

"He carries weight! he rides a race!

'Tis for a thousand pound!"

And still as fast as he drew near,

'Twas wonderful to view,

How in a trice the turnpike-men

Their gates wide open threw.

And now, as he went bowing down

His reeking head full low,

The bottles twain behind his back

Were shattered at a blow.

Down ran the wine into the road,

Most piteous to be seen,

Which made the horse's flanks to smoke

As they had basted been.

But still he seemed to carry weight,

With leathern girdle braced;

For all might see the bottle-necks

Still dangling at his waist.

Thus all through merry Islington

These gambols he did play,

Until he came unto the Wash

Of Edmonton so gay;

And there he threw the Wash about

On both sides of the way,

Just like unto a trundling mop,

Or a wild goose at play.

At Edmonton his loving wife

From the balcony spied

Her tender husband, wondering much

To see how he did ride.

"Stop, stop, John Gilpin!—Here's the house!"

They all at once did cry;

"The dinner waits, and we are tired;"

Said Gilpin—"So am I!"

But yet his horse was not a whit

Inclined to tarry there!

For why?—his owner had a house

Full ten miles off, at Ware.

So like an arrow swift he flew,

Shot by an archer strong;

So did he fly—which brings me to

The middle of my song.

Away went Gilpin, out of breath,

And sore against his will,

Till at his friend the calender's

His horse at last stood still.

The calender, amazed to see

His neighbour in such trim,

Laid down his pipe, flew to the gate,

And thus accosted him:

"What news? what news? your tidings tell;

Tell me you must and shall—

Say why bareheaded you are come,

Or why you come at all?"

Now Gilpin had a pleasant wit,

And loved a timely joke;

And thus unto the calender

In merry guise he spoke:

"I came because your horse would come:

And, if I well forebode,

My hat and wig will soon be here,

They are upon the road."

The calender, right glad to find

His friend in merry pin,

Returned him not a single word,

But to the house went in;

Whence straight he came with hat and wig,

A wig that flowed behind,

A hat not much the worse for wear,

Each comely in his kind.

He held them up, and in his turn

Thus showed his ready wit:

"My head is twice as big as yours,

They therefore needs must fit."

"But let me scrape the dirt away,

That hangs upon your face;

And stop and eat, for well you may

Be in a hungry case."

Said John, "It is my wedding-day,

And all the world would stare

If wife should dine at Edmonton,

And I should dine at Ware."

So turning to his horse, he said,

"I am in haste to dine;

'Twas for your pleasure you came here,

You shall go back for mine."

Ah! luckless speech, and bootless boast!

For which he paid full dear;

For while he spake, a braying ass

Did sing most loud and clear;

Whereat his horse did snort, as he

Had heard a lion roar,

And galloped off with all his might,

As he had done before

Away went Gilpin, and away

Went Gilpin's hat and wig;

He lost them sooner than at first,

For why?—they were too big.

Now Mistress Gilpin, when she saw

Her husband posting down

Into the country far away,

She pulled out half-a-crown;

And thus unto the youth she said

That drove them to the "Bell,"

"This shall be yours when you bring back

My husband safe and well."

The youth did ride, and soon did meet

John coming back amain;

Whom in a trice he tried to stop,

By catching at his rein.

But not performing what he meant,

And gladly would have done,

The frighted steed he frighted more,

And made him faster run.

Away went Gilpin, and away

Went postboy at his heels,

The postboy's horse right glad to miss

The lumbering of the wheels.

Six gentlemen upon the road,

Thus seeing Gilpin fly,

With postboy scampering in the rear,

They raised the hue and cry:

"Stop thief! stop thief!—a highwayman!"

Not one of them was mute;

And all and each that passed that way

Did join in the pursuit.

And now the turnpike-gates again

Flew open in short space;

The toll-men thinking, as before,

That Gilpin rode a race.

And so he did, and won it too,

For he got first to town;

Nor stopped till where he had got up,

He did again get down.

Now let us sing, Long live the King,

And Gilpin, long live he!

And when he next doth ride abroad,

May I be there to see!

——W. Cowper.

Original

FAIR ELEANOR

The bell struck one, and shook the silent tower;

The graves give up their dead: fair Eleanor

Walked by the castle gate, and looked in;

A hollow groan ran through the dreary vaults.

She shrieked aloud, and sunk upon the steps,

On the cold stone her pale cheek. Sickly smells

Of death issue as from a sepulchre.

And all is silent but the sighing vaults.

Chill death withdraws his hand, and she revives;

Amazed she finds herself upon her feet,

And, like a ghost, through narrow passages

Walking, feeling the cold walls with her hands.

Fancy returns, and now she thinks of bones

And grinning skulls, and corruptible death

Original

Wrapt in his shroud; and now fancies she hears

Deep sighs, and sees pale sickly ghosts gliding.

At length, no fancy but reality

Distracts her. A rushing sound, and the feet

Of one that fled, approaches.—Ellen stood,

Like a dumb statue, froze to stone with fear.

The wretch approaches, crying, "The deed is done!

Take this, and send it by whom thou wilt send;

It is my life—send it to Eleanor—:

He's dead, and howling after me for blood!

"Take this," he cried: and thrust into her arms

A wet napkin, wrapt about; then rushed

Past, howling. She received into her arms

Pale death, and followed on the wings of fear.

They passed swift through the outer gate; the wretch

Howling, leaped o'er the wall into the moat,

Stifling in mud. Fair Ellen passed the bridge,

And heard a gloomy voice cry, "Is it done?"

As the deer wounded, Ellen flew over

The pathless plain; as the arrows that fly

By night, destruction flies, and strikes in darkness.

She fled from fear, till at her house arrived.

Her maids await her; on her bed she falls,

That bed of joy where erst her lord hath pressed.

"Ah woman's fear!" she cried, "Ah cursed duke!

Ah my dear lord! Ah wretched Eleanor!

"My lord was like a flower upon the brows

Of lusty May! Ah life as frail as flower!