INTRODUCTION.

The following curious collection I have gathered together during several years' reading in out-of-the-way corners. Manuscripts, in public and private libraries; old books picked up on dusty bookstalls, or carried away as prizes from the battlefield of the auction-room; even pencillings on the inside of tattered bindings,—all have been laid under contribution. I trust this medley, or pot-pourri, of snatches of song, grave and gay, will prove as interesting to my readers as they have been to myself. They claim attention on various grounds: some are the works of well-known men, such as Anthony Munday and Warren Hastings; some are bitter political squibs—such, for instance, as the "Satyre against the Scots," page 47; some, again, are exquisitely beautiful, as "The Dirge," page 53. A few have appeared in different collections: but none of my readers, I will undertake to say, have seen more than a half-dozen or so.

With these few words I beg to introduce Volume One of the "Collectanea Adamantaea."

EDMUND GOLDSMID.

Edinburgh, March 6th, 1884.

CONTENTS.

I. BEAUTIES FORT

II. MY BONNY LASS, THINE EYE

III. ANTHONY MUNDAY'S POEM ON THE CAPTIVITY OF JOHN FOX

IV. CARE FOR THY SOUL

V. MEGLIORA SPERO

VI. A LETTER FROM THE DUKE OF MONMOUTH TO THE KING

VII. THE KING'S ANSWER

VIII. AN EPITAPH ON DUNDEE

IX. THE ROBBER ROBB'D

X. AH! THE SHEPHERD'S MOURNFUL FATE

XI. VERSES TO A FRIEND

XII. A PANYGYRICK UPON OATES

XIII. THE MIRACLE

XIV. THE PATRIOTS

XV. JUSTICE IN MASQUERADE

XVI. THE BRAWNY BISHOP'S LAMENT

XVII. THE POOR BLIND BOY

XVIII. THE INISKILLING REGIMENT

XIX. A BALLAD ON THE FLEET

XX. ON MR. FOX AND MR. HASTINGS

XXI. AN IMITATION OF HORACE, BK. II, ODE 16

XXII. EPITAPH ON DR. JOHNSON

XXIII. VERSES UPON THE ROAD

XXIV. SATYR ON THE SCOTS

XXV. THE MARSEILLAISE

XXVI. A DIRGE

BEAUTIES FORT.

FROM AN ANONYMOUS MS., LATELY IN POSSESSION OF J. P. COLLIER, ESQ., F.S.A.

When raging Love, with fierce assault, Strikes at fair Beauties gate, What army hath she to resist And keepe her court and state?

She calleth first on Chastitie To lende her help in time; And Prudence no lesse summons shee To meet her foe so trim.

And female Courage she alwaye Doth bring unto the walle, To blowe the trump in her dismaye, Fearing her fort may falle.

On force of wordes she much relies Her foe without to keepe, And parleyeth with her two bright eyes When they her dyke would leape.

Yet natheless the more she strives, The lesse she keepes him out, For she hath traitors in her camp That keepe her still in doubt.

The first and worst of these the Fleshe, Then womans Vanitie That still is caughte within the meshe Of guilefull Flatterie.

These traitors ope the gate at length; And in, with sword in hande, Came raging Love, and all her strength No longer can withstande.

Prudence and Chastitie both to Submit unto the foe; And female Courage nought can doe But down her walls must goe.

She needes must yield her castle strong, And Love triumphs once more; Its onely what the boy hath done A thousand times before.

None may resist his mightie power; And though a boy, and blinde, He knows to chase a happie hour When maidens must be kinde.

MY BONNY LASS! THINE EYE.

By THOMAS LODGE, M.D.

[Footnote: The original of this poem not being within my reach at present, I have inserted Professor Arber's modern version.]

My bonny lass! thine eye, So sly, Hath made me sorrow so. Thy crimson cheeks, my dear! So clear, Have so much wrought my woe.

Thy pleasing smiles and grace, Thy face, Have ravished so my sprites, That life is grown to nought Through thought Of love, which me affrights.

For fancy's flames of fire Aspire Unto such furious power, As but the tears I shed Make dead, The brands would me devour.

I should consume to nought Through thought Of thy fair shining eye, Thy cheeks, thy pleasing smiles, The wiles That forced my heart to die,

Thy grace, thy face, the part Where art Stands gazing still to see The wondrous gifts and power, Each hour, That hath bewitched me.

ANTHONY MUNDAY'S POEM ON THE CAPTIVITY OF JOHN FOX.

Leeving at large all fables vainly us'd, all trifling toys that doe no truth import, Lo, here how the end (at length), though long diffus'd, unfoldeth plaine a rare and true report, To glad those minds who seek their countries wealth by proffer'd pains t'enlarge its happy health.

At Rome I was when Fox did there arrive; therefore I may sufficiently express What gallant joy his deedes did there revive in the hearts of those which heard his valiantness. And how the Pope did recompense his pains, and letters gave to move his greater gains.

But yet I know that many doe misdoubt that those his pains are fables, and untrue; Not only I in this will bear him out, but divers more that did his Patents view, And unto those so boldly I dare say that nought but truth John Fox cloth here bewray.

Besides, there's one was slave with him in thrall lately return'd into our native land; This witness can this matter perfect all: what needeth more? for witness he may stand. And thus I end, unfolding what I know; the other man more larger proof can show. "Honos alit Artes"

The above lines by Anthony Munday are omitted by Hakluyt in his reprint of the captivity of John Fox in his "Principal English Voyages," vol. ii. p. 136, ed. 1598-1600. John Fox, of Woodbridge, gunner of the Three Half Moons, was made prisoner by the Turks in 1563. Escaped with 266 other Christians in 1577.

CARE FOR THY SOULE.

Care for thy soule, as thing of greatest pryce! Made to the ende to taste of power Divine, Devoid of guilt, abhorryng sin and vice, Apt by God's grace to virtue to incline; Care for it soe, as by thy retchless traine It bee not brought to taste eternall paine!

Care for thy corpse (body), but chiefely for soules sake, Not of excess; sustainyng food is best To vanquish pryde, but comely clothing take. Seeke after skille; deepe ignorance detest; Care so, I say, the flesh to feede and cloth, That thou harm not thy soule and bodie both.

Care for the world, to doe thy bodie right; Back not thy wytt to win by wicked wayes; Seeke not t'oppress the weak by wrongfull might; To pay thy due, doe banish all delayes; Care to dispend accordyng to thy store, And, in like sort, bee mindfull of the pore.

Care for thy soule, as for thy chiefest staye, Care for thy bodie, for the soules avail; Care for the world, for bodies helpe alwaye, Care yett but soe as virtue may prevail; Care in such sort, that thou be sure of this, Care keepe the not from heaven and heavenlie blisse.

MEGLIORA SPERO.

By Edward de Vere, Earl of Oxford.

Faction, that ever dwells in Courte where witt excels, Hath sett defiance; Fortune and Love have sworne that they were never borne Of one alliance.

Cupid, which doth aspire to be god of Desire, Swears he "gives lawes; That where his arrows hit, somejoy, some sorrow it: Fortune no cause."

Fortune swears "weakest heartes," the bookes of Cupide's artes. "Turn'd with her wheel, Senselesse themselves shal prove. Venture hath place in love. Aske them that feel!"

This discord it begot atheists, that honour not. Nature thought good Fortune shoud ever dwel in Court where wits excel; Love keepe the wood.

Soe to the wood went I, with Love to live and dye; Fortunes forlorne. Experience of my youth made mee thinke humble Truth In deserts borne.

My saint I keepe to mee, and Joan herself is free, Joan fair and true! Shee that doth onely move passions of love with Love. Fortune! adieu!

A LETTER FROM THE DUKE OF MONMOUTH TO THE KING.

Disgrac'd, undone, forlorn, made Fortune's Sport, Banish'd your Kingdom first, and then your Court; Out of my Places turn'd, and out of Doors, And made the meanest of your Sons of Whores; The scene of Laughter, and the common chats Of your salt Bitches, and your other Brats; Forc'd to a private Life, to Whore and Drink, On my past Grandeur and my Follies Think: Would I had been the Brat of some mean Drab, Whom Fear or Chance had caus'd to choak or stab, Rather than be the Issue of a King, And by him made so wretched, scorn'd a Thing. How little cause has mankind to be proud Of Noble Birth, the Idol of the Crowd! Have I abroad in Battels Honour won To be at home dishonourably undone? Mark'd with a Star and Garter, and made fine With all those gaudy Trifles once call'd mine, Your Hobby-Horses [1] and your Joys of State, And now become the Object of your Hate; But, d———'ee, Sir, I'll be Legitimate. I was your Darling, but against your Will, And know that I will be the Peoples still; And when you're dead, I and my Friends, the Rout, Will with my Popish Uncle try a Bout,

And to my Troubles this one Comfort bring, Next after you, by ———, I will be King.

[Footnote 1: At the age of sixteen he was made Master of the Horse.]

THE KING'S ANSWER.

Ungrateful Boy! I will not call thee Son, Thou hast thyself unhappily undone; And thy Complaints serve but to show thee more, How much thou hast enrag'd thy Father's Whore. Resent it not, shake not thy addle Head, And be no more by Clubs and Rascals led. Have I made thee the Darling of my Joys, The prettiest and the lustiest of my Boys? Have I so oft sent thee with cost to France, To take new Dresses up, and learn to dance? Have I giv'n thee a Ribbon and a Star, And sent thee like a Meteor to the War? Have I done all that Royal Dad could do, And do you threaten now to be untrue? But say I did with thy fond Mother sport, To the same kindness others had resort; 'Twas my good Nature, and I meant her Fame, To shelter thee under my Royal Name. Alas! I never got one Brat alone, My Mistresses all are by each Fop well known, And I still willing all their Brats to own. I made thee once,'tis true, the Post of Grace, And stuck upon thee every mighty Place, Each glitt'ring Office, till thy heavy Brow Grew dull with Honour, and my Pow'r low. I spangled thee with Favours, hung thy Nose

With Rings of Gold and Pearl, till all grew Foes By secret Envy at thy growing State: I lost my safety when I made thee Great. There's not the least Injustice to you shewn; You must be ruin'd to secure my Throne. Office is but a fickle Grace, the Badge Bestow'd by fits, and snatch'd away in Rage; And sure that Livery which I give my Slaves I may take from 'em when my Portsmouth raves. Thou art a Creature of my own Creation; Then swallow this without Capitulation. If you with feigned Wrongs still keep a Clutter, And make the People for your Sake to mutter, For my own Comfort, but your Trouble, know, G———fish, I'll send you to the Shades below.

AN EPITAPH ON DUNDEE.

ENGLISH'D BY MR. DRYDEN.

O Last and Bests of Scots! Who didst maintain Thy Country's Freedom from a Foreign Reign, New People fill the Land now thou art gone, New Gods the Temples, and new Kings the Throne. Scotland and thou did each in other live, Thou wouldst not her, nor could she thee, survive. Farewell! who living didst support the State, And couldst not fall but with thy Country's Fate.