It was, I weene, a comelie sight,
To see sae trim a boy;

He was my jo and hearts delight,
My handsome Gilderoy.

Oh! sike twa charming een he had,
A breath as sweet as rose,
He never ware a Highland plaid,
But costly silken clothes;
He gain'd the luve of ladies gay,
Nane eir tull him was coy:
Ah! wae is mee! I mourn the day
For my dear Gilderoy.

My Gilderoy and I were born,
Baith in one toun together,
We scant were seven years beforn,
We gan to luve each other;
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 hair
My handsome Gilderoy.

Oh! that he still had been content, Wi' me to lead his life;

But, ah! his manfu' heart was bent, To stir in feates of strife:

And he in many a venturous deed,

His courage bauld wad try;

And now this gars mine heart to bleed,
For my dear Gilderoy.

And when of me his leave he tuik,

The tears they wat mine ee,

I gave tull him a parting luik,

"My benison gang wi' thee;

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:

Had not their laws been made sae strick,

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;

Ah! what sair cruelty is this,

To hang sike handsome men :
To hang the flower o' Scottish land,
Sae sweet and fair a boy;
Nae lady had sae white a hand
As thee, my Gilderoy.

Of Gilderoy sae fraid they were,
They bound him mickle strong,
Tull Edenburrow they led him thair,
And on a gallows hung:

They hung him high aboon the rest,
He was sae trim a boy;

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.

XIII. WINIFREDA

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 mother's features,
To hear them lisp their mother's 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.

XIV. THE WITCH OF WOKEY

This ballad was published in a small collection of poems, intitled, "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 copy was furnished by the late Mr. Shenstone, with some variations and corrections of his own, which he had taken the liberty to propose, and for which the Author's indulgence was entreated. In this edition it was intended to reprint the Author's own original copy; but, as that may be seen correctly given in Pearch's Collection, vol. i., 1783, p. 161, it was thought the reader of taste would wish to have the variations preserved; they are therefore still retained here, which it is hoped the worthy author will excuse with his wonted liberality.

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 very 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.

VOL. I.

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.

T

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:

No wholesome herb could here be found;. She blasted every plant around,

And blister'd every flock.

Her haggard face was foull to see ;
Her mouth unmeet a mouth to bee;
Her eyne of deadly leer,

She nought devis'd, but neighbour's ill;
She wreak'd on all her wayward will,
And marr'd all goodly chear.

All in her prime, have poets sung,
No gaudy youth, gallant and young,
E'er blest her longing armes ;
And hence arose her spight to vex,
And blast the youth of either sex,
By dint of hellish charms.
From Glaston came a lerned wight,
Full bent to marr her fell dispight,
And well he did, I weene:
Sich mischief never had been known,
And, since his mickle lerninge shown,
Sich mischief ne'er has been.
He chauntede out his godlie booke,
He crost the water, blest the brooke,
Then-pater noster done,

The ghastly hag he sprinkled o'er ;
When lo! where stood a hag before,
Now stood a ghastly stone.

Full well 'tis known adown the dale:
Tho' passing strange indeed the tale,
And doubtfull may appear,

I'm bold to say, there's never a one,
That has not seen the witch in stone,
With all her household gear.