It is worth attention, that the English have more songs and ballads on the subject of madness, than any of their neighbours. Whether there be any truth in the insinuation, that we are more liable to this calamity than other nations, or that our native gloominess hath peculiarly recommended subjects of this cast to our writers; we certainly do not find the same in the printed collections of French, Italian Songs, &c.

Out of a much larger quantity, we have selected half a dozen "Mad Songs" for this work. The three first are originals in their respective kinds; the merit of the three last is chiefly that of imitation. They were written at considerable intervals of time; but we have here grouped them together, that the reader may the better examine their comparative merits. He may consider them as so many trials of skill in a very peculiar subject, as the contest of so many rivals to shoot in the bow of Ulysses. The two first were probably written about the beginning of the last century; the third about the middle of it; the fourth and sixth towards the end; and the fifth within the eighteenth century.

This is given from the Editor's folio MS. compared with two or three old printed copies.-With regard to the author of this old rhapsody, in Walton's Complete Angler, cap. 3. is a song in praise of

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angling, which the author says was made at his request by Mr. William Basse, one that has made the choice songs of the Hunter in his Career,' and of 'Tom of Bedlam,'and many others of note," p. 81. See Sir John Hawkins's curious edition, 8vo. o! that excellent old book.

FORTII from my sad and darksome cell,
Or from the deepe abysse of hell,
Mad Tom is come into the world againe
To see if he can cure his distempered braine

Feares and cares oppresse my soule;
Harke, howe the angrye Fureys houle!
Pluto laughes, and Proserpine is gladd
To see poore naked Tom of Bedlam madd.

Through the world I wander night and day
To seeke my straggling senses,

In an angry moode I mett old Time,
With his pentarchye of tenses:

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M

Since love does distract my brain :

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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.

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-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,

With a step and a bound,

00

With a frisk from the ground,

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Ah! 'tis in vain! 'tis all, 'tis all in vain!
Death aud despair must end the fatal pax:
Cold, cold despair, disguis'd like snow and rar,
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 Av,

Robes, locks-shall thus-be tore: A thousand, thousand times I'll dye

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

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335

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 fv from Celia's cold disdain,
From her disdain I fly;

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

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