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There come, he steals her shafts away,
And puts his own into their place;
Nor dares he any longer stay,

But, ere she wakes, hies thence apace.
Scarce was he gone, but she awakes,

And spies the shepherd standing by;
Her bended bow in haste she takes,
And at the simple swain lets flye.


Forth flew the shaft and pierc'd his heart,
That to the ground he fell with pain;


Yet up again forthwith he start,

And to the nymph he ran amain.

Amazed to see so strange a sight,

She shot, and shot, but all in vain ;


The more his wounds, the more his might,

Love yielded strength amidst his pain.

Her angry eyes were great with tears,

She blames her hand, she blames her skill;
The bluntness of her shafts she fears,
And try them on herself she will.

Take heed, sweet nymph, trye not thy shaft,
Each little touch will pierce thy heart;
Alas! thou know'st not Cupids craft;
Revenge is joy: the end is smart.

Yet try she will, and pierce some bare;

Her hands were glov'd, but next to hand

Was that fair breast, that breast so rare,

That made the shepherd senseless stand.

That breast she pierc'd; and through that breast
Love found an entry to her heart;

At feeling of this new-come guest,

Lord! how this gentle nymph did start!

She runs not now; she shoots no more;
Away she throws both shaft and bow;
She seeks for what she shunn'd before,
She thinks the shepherds haste too slow.


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Though mountains meet not, lovers may;
What other lovers do, did they;

The god of love sate on a tree,

And laughed that pleasant sight to see.



The Character of a Happy Life.

This little moral poem was writ by Sir Henry Wotton, who died Provost of Eton, in 1639, Et. 72. It is printed from a little collection of his pieces, entitled Reliquiæ Wottonianæ, 1651, 12mo, compared with one or two other copies.

How happy is he born and taught
That serveth not anothers will;
Whose armour is his honest thought,
And simple truth his highest skill;
Whose passions not his masters are ;
Whose soul is still prepar'd for death,
Not ty'd unto the world with care
Of princes ear, or vulgar breath;

Who hath his life from rumours freed;

Whose conscience is his strong retreat;
Whose state can neither flatterers feed,
Nor ruine make oppressors great;



Who envies none whom chance doth raise,
Or vice; who never understood

How deepest wounds are given with praise,
Nor rules of state, but rules of good.


Who God doth late and early pray

More of his grace than gifts to lend,

And entertaines the harmless day

With a well-chosen book or friend!

This man is freed from servile bands

Of hope to rise or feare to fall;
Lord of himselfe, though not of lands,
And having nothing, yet hath all.




was a famous robber, who lived about the middle of the last century, if we may credit the histories and story-books of highwaymen, which relate many improbable feats of him, as his robbing Cardinal Richelieu, Oliver Cromwell, &c. But these stories have probably no other authority than the records of Grub-street; at least the Gilderoy, who is the hero of Scottish songsters, seems to have lived in an earlier age; for, in Thompson's Orpheus Caledonius, vol. ii. 1733, 8vo, is a copy of this ballad, which, though corrupt and interpolated, contains some lines that appear to be of genuine antiquity: in these he is represented as contemporary with Mary, Queen of Scots: ex. gr.

"The Queen of Scots possessed nought,

That my love let me want:

For cow and ew to me he brought,

And ein whan they were scant."

These lines, perhaps, might safely have been inserted among the following stanzas, which are given from a written copy, that seems to have received some modern corrections. Indeed the common popular ballad contained some indecent luxuriances that required the pruninghook.

GILDEROY was a bonnie boy,
Had roses tull his shoone;
His stockings were of silken soy,
Wi' garters hanging doune.

It was, I weene, a comelie sight,

To see sae trim a boy;

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

O! 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.




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And aft we passed the langsome time,
Among the leaves sae green;


Aft on the banks we'd sit us thair,

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

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


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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.

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