THE pauky auld Carle came ovir the lee
Wi' mony good-eens and days to mee,
Saying, Goodwife, for zour courtesie,

Will ze lodge a silly poor man?

The night was cauld, the carle was wat,
And down azont the ingle he sat ;
My dochters shoulders he gan to clap,
And cadgily ranted and sang.

O wow! quo he, were I as free,
As first when I saw this countrie,
How blyth and merry wad I bee!
And I wad nevir think lang.

He

5

10

grew canty, and she grew fain; But little did her auld minny ken

What thir slee twa togither were say❜n,
When wooing they were sa thrang.

15

And O! quo he, ann ze were as black,
As evir the crown of your dadyes hat,
Tis I wad lay thee by my back,

And awa wi' me thou sould gang.

And O! quoth she, ann I were as white,
As evir the snaw lay on the dike,
Ild clead me braw, and lady-like,
And awa with thee Ild

gang.

Between the twa was made a plot;
They raise a wee before the cock,

And wyliely they shot the lock,

And fast to the bent are they gane.
Up the morn the auld wife raise,

And at her leisure put on her claiths,
Syne to the servants bed she gaes

To speir for the silly poor man.

She gaed to the bed, whair the beggar lay,
The strae was cauld, he was away,
She clapt her hands, cryd, Dulefu' day!

For some of our geir will be gane.
Some ran to coffer, and some to kist,
But nought was stown that could be mist.
She dancid her lane, cryd, Praise be blest,
I have lodgd a leal poor man.

Since naithings awa, as we can learn,
The kirns to kirn, and milk to earn,

Gae butt the house, lass, and waken my bairn,

And bid her come quickly ben.

30

35

40

The servant gaed where the dochter lay,

45

The sheets was cauld, she was away,

And fast to her goodwife can say,

Shes aff with the gaberlunzie man.

For shees be burnt, and hees be slein,
The wearyfou gaberlunzie man.
Some rade upo horse, some ran a fit,
The wife was wood, and out o' her wit;

She could na gang, nor yet could she sit,

55

But ay did curse and did ban.

Mean time far hind out owre the lee,

For snug in a glen, where nane could see,

The twa, with kindlie sport and glee,

Cut frae a new cheese a whang.

60

The priving was gude, it pleas'd them baith,

To lo'e her for ay, he gae her his aith.

Quo she, to leave thee, I will be laith,

My winsome gaberlunzie man.

O kend my minny I were wi' zou,

65

Illfardly wad she crook her mou,

Sic a poor man sheld nevir trow,

Aftir the gaberlunzie mon.

My dear, quo he, zee're zet owre zonge;

And hae na learnt the beggars tonge,

To follow me frae toun to toun,

And carrie the gaberlunzie on.

Wi' kauk and keel, Ill win zour bread,
And spindles and whorles for them wha need,
Whilk is a gentil trade indeed

The gaberlunzie to carrie-o.

70

75

Ill bow my leg and crook my knee,
And draw a black clout owre my ee,

A criple or blind they will cau me:

While we sall sing and be merrie-o.

80

XI.

On Thomas Lord Cromwell.

It is ever the fate of a disgraced minister to be forsaken by his friends, and insulted by his enemies, always reckoning among the latter the giddy, inconstant multitude. We have here a spurn at fallen greatness from some angry partisan of declining Popery, who could never forgive the downfall of their Diana, and loss of their craft. The ballad seems to have been composed between the time of Cromwell's commitment to the Tower, June 11, 1540, and that of his being beheaded, July 28, following. A short interval! but Henry's passion for Catherine Howard would admit of no delay. Notwithstanding our libeller, Cromwell had many excellent qualities: his great fault was too much obsequiousness to the arbitrary will of his master ; but let it be considered that this master had raised him from obscurity, and that the high-born nobility had shown him the way in every kind of mean and servile compliance. The original copy, printed at London in 1540, is entitled "A newe ballade made of. Thomas Crumwel, called Trolle on Away." To it is prefixed this distich by way of burthen,

Trolle on away, trolle on awaye.

Synge heave and howe rombelowe trolle on away.

BOTH man and chylde is glad to here tell
Of that false traytoure Thomas Crumwell,
Now that he is set to learn to spell.

Synge trolle on away.

When fortune lokyd the in thy face,

Thou haddyst fayre tyme, but thou lackydyst grace; Thy cofers with golde thou fyllydst a pace.

6

Synge, &c.

Both plate and chalys came to thy fyst,

Thou lockydst them vp where no man wyst,

Tyll in the kynges treasoure suche-thinges were myst.

Synge, &c.

Both crust and crumme came thorowe thy handes, 10 Thy marchaundyse sayled over the sandes,

Therfore nowe thou art layde fast in bandes.

Synge, &c.

Fyrste when kynge Henry, God saue his grace!

Perceyud myschefe kyndlyd in thy face,
Then it was tyme to purchase the a place.

15

Synge, &c.

Hys grace was euer of gentyll nature,

Mouyd with petye, and made the hys seruyture: But thou, as a wretche, suche thinges dyd procure.

Synge, &c.