Sidor som bilder
[blocks in formation]


Our dadies and our mammies thay
Were fill'd wi' mickle joy,
To think upon the bridal day,
Twixt me and Gilderoy.

For Gilderoy that luve of mine,
Gude faith, I freely bought
A wedding sark of holland fine,
Wi' silken flowers wrought:
And he gied me a wedding ring,

Which I receiv'd wi' joy,
Nae lad nor lassie eir could sing,
Like me and Gilderoy.

Wi' mickle joy we spent our prime,
Till we were baith sixteen,

And aft we past the langsome time,
Among the leaves sae green;
Aft on the banks we'd sit us thair,
And sweetly kiss and toy,

Wi' garlands gay wad deck my
My handsome Gilderoy.

[blocks in formation]



[blocks in formation]

God speed thee weil, mine ain dear heart,
For gane is all my joy;

My heart is rent sith we maun part,
My handsome Gilderoy."

My Gilderoy baith far and near,
Was fear'd in every toun,

And bauldly bare away the gear,

Of many a lawland loun;


Nane eir durst meet him man to man,

He was sae brave a boy:

At length wi' numbers he was tane,

My winsome Gilderoy.

Wae worth the loun that made the laws,
To hang a man for gear,

To 'reave of life for ox or ass,

For sheep, or horse, or mare:

[blocks in formation]

Had not their laws been made sae strick,

[ocr errors][merged small]

I neir had lost my joy,

Wi' sorrow neir had wat my cheek,

For my dear Gilderoy.

Giff Gilderoy had done amisse,

He mought hae banisht been,

[blocks in formation]
[ocr errors][merged small]

Thair dyed the youth whom I lued best,
My handsome Gilderoy.

Thus having yielded up his breath,

I bare his corpse away,

Wi' tears, that trickled for his death,
I washt his comelye clay;
And siker in a grave sae deep,

I laid the dear-lued boy,
And now for evir maun I weep,
My winsome Gilderoy.



[blocks in formation]

THIS beautiful address to conjugal love, a subject too much neglected by the libertine Muses, was, I believe, first printed in a volume of "Miscellaneous Poems, by several hands, published by D. [David] Lewis, 1726." 8vo.

It is there said, how truly I know not, to be a translation "from the ancient British language."

AWAY; let nought to love displeasing,
My Winifreda, move your care;
Let nought delay the heavenly blessing,
Nor squeamish pride, nor gloomy fear.

What tho' no grants of royal donors

With pompous titles grace our blood:
We'll shine in more substantial honors,
And to be noble we'll be good.

Our name, while virtue thus we tender,
Will sweetly sound where-e'er 'tis spoke:
And all the great ones, they shall wonder
How they respect such little folk.



What though from fortune's lavish bounty

No mighty treasures we possess;
We'll find within our pittance plenty,
And be content without excess.

Still shall each returning season
Sufficient for our wishes give;
For we will live a life of reason,

And that's the only life to live.

Through youth and age in love excelling,
We'll hand in hand together tread;
Sweet-smiling peace shall crown our dwelling,
And babes, sweet-smiling babes, our bed.
How should I love the pretty creatures,
While round my knees they fondly clung:
To see them look their mothers features,
To hear them lisp their mothers tongue.

And when with envy time transported,
Shall think to rob us of our joys,
You'll in your girls again be courted,
And I'll go a wooing in my boys.


The Witch of Mokey,

[blocks in formation]

WAS published in a small collection of Poems, entitled Euthemia, or the Power of Harmony, &c., 1756, written in 1748, by the ingenious Dr. Harrington, of Bath, who never allowed them to be published, and withheld his name till it could no longer be concealed. The following contains some variations from the original copy, which it is hoped the author will pardon, when he is informed they came from the elegant pen of the late Mr. Shenstone.

Wokey-hole is a noted cavern in Somersetshire, which

has given birth to as many wild fanciful stories, as the Sybil's Cave in Italy. Through a very narrow entrance, it opens into a large vault, the roof whereof, either on account of its height, or the thickness of the gloom, cannot be discovered by the light of torches. It goes winding a great way under ground, is crost by a stream of very cold water, and is all horrid with broken pieces of rock: many of these are evident petrifactions, which, on account of their singular forms, have given rise to the fables alluded to in this poem.

IN aunciente days, tradition showes,
A base and wicked elfe arose,
The Witch of Wokey hight:
Oft have I heard the fearfull tale
From Sue, and Roger of the vale,

On some long winter's night.

Deep in the dreary dismall cell,
Which seem'd and was ycleped hell,
This blear-eyed hag did hide:
Nine wicked elves, as legends sayne,



She chose to form her guardian trayne,

And kennel near her side.

Here screeching owls oft made their nest,
While wolves its craggy sides possest,

Night-howling thro' the rock:


[blocks in formation]
« FöregåendeFortsätt »