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Who was executed at Kendal, for robbing the King's Receiver, and taking away from him great store of treasure."

TO lodge it was my chance of late
     At Kendal in the 'sizes week,
Where I saw many a gallant state
     Was walking up and down the street.
Down Plumpton Park as I did pass,
     I heard a bird sing in a glen:
The chiefest of her song it was,
     Farewell the fIower of serving-men.

Sometimes I heard the music sweet,
     Which was delightful unto me;
At length I heard one wail and weep,
     A gallant youth condemned to die.

A gentleman of courage bold,
     His like I never saw before;
But when as I did him behold,
     My  grief it grew still more and more.

Of watery eyes there was great store,
     For all did weep that did him see,
He made the heart of many sore,
     And I lamented for company.

To God above (quoth he) I call,
     That sent his son to suffer death,
For to receive my sinful soul,
     As soon as I shall lose my breath.

O God I have deserved death,
     For deeds that I have done to thee,
Yet never liv'd I like a thief,
     Till I met with ill company.

For I may curse the dismal hour,
     First time that I did give consent,
For to rob the King's Receiver,
     And to take away his rent.

You gallants all be warned by me,
     Learn cards and dice for to refrain,
Fly whores, eschew ill company,
     For these three things will breed you pain.

All earthly treasures are but vain,
     And worldly wealth is vanity:
Search nothing else but heaven to gain,
     Remember all that we must die.

Farewell good fellows, less and more,
     Be not dismay'd at this my fall:
I never did offend before,
     John Musgrave all men did me call.


The bait beguiles the bonny fish,
     Some care not what they swear or say;
The lamb becomes the fox's dish,
     When as the old sheep runs away:

Down Plumpton Park as I did pass,
     I heard a bird sing in a glen,
The chiefest of her song it was,
     Farewell the flower of serving-men.

The fowlers that the plovers get,
     Take glistering glass their net to set;
The ferret, when the mouth is cop't,
     Doth drive the coney to the net.

The pike devours the salmon free,
     Which is a better fish than himself
Some care not how whose children cry
     So that themselves may keep their pelf.

Farewell  good people less and more,
     Both great and small that did me ken,
Farewell rich, and farewell poor,
     And farewell all good serving men.

Now by my death I wish all know,
     That this same lesson you may teach,
Of what degree of high or low,
     Climb not, I say, above your reach.

Good gentlemen, I you entreat,
     That have more sons than you have land,
In idleness do not them keep,
     Teach them to labour with their hands.

For idleness is the root of evil,
     And this sin never goes alone;
But theft and robbery follows after,
     As by myself is plainly shewn. 

For youth and age will not understand
     That friends in want they be but cold, 
If they spend their portions and lack land,
     They may go beg when they are old.

Farewell, farewell, my brethren dear,
     Sweet sisters make no dole for me,
My death's at hand, I do not fear,
     We are all mortal, and born to die.

I know that Christ did die for me,
     No earthly pleasures would I have,
I care not for the world a fly,
     But mercy, Lord, of thee I crave.

Come, man of death, and do me right,
     My glass is run, I cannot stay:
With Christ I hope to lodge this night,
     And all good people for me pray.

The man of death his part did play,
     Which made the tears blind many an eye
He is with Christ, as I dare say,
     The Lord grant us that so we may.



This Satire was most probably levelled against the nume­rous train of Scotch adventurers who wisely emigrated to England in the time of James the First, in the full ex­pectation of being distinguished by the particular favour and patronage of their native sovereign. The realization of these hopes, and perhaps some disappointment of his own, excited the gall of the unknown Satirist, and pro­duced this effusion. Its extreme rarity cannot be better exemplified than by simply stating, that no other copy of it was ever seen by Mr. Chalmers, whose knowledge respecting every subject of Scottish history and litera­ture is proverbial: and the late Mr. Ritson absolutely questioned it's existence till he was convinced of his error by the production of the original. The ensuing tran­script is made from a very curious manuscript in the possession of the Rev. H. J. Todd, who has given an account of the other parts of the volume in his preliminary ob­servations on the Sonnets of Milton.

WELL met, Jockie, whether* away?
Shall we two have a worde or tway?
Thow was so lousie the other day,
How the devill comes thow so gay?
     Ha ha ha, by sweet St. An,
     Jockie is growne a gentleman.

Thy shoes that thow wor'st when thow wenst to plow,
Were made of the hyde of a Scottish cow,
They are turnd into Spanish leather now,
Bedeckt with roses I know not how.
     Ha ha ha, by sweet St. An,
     Jockie is growne a gentleman. 

Thy stockings that were of a northerne blew,
That cost not past 12d when they were new,
Are turnd into a silken hew,
Most gloriously to all men's vew.
     Ha ha ha, by sweet St. An,
     Jockie is growne a gentleman.

Thy belt that was made of a white leather thonge,
Which thow and thy father ware so longe,
Are turnd to hangers of velvet stronge,
With golde and pearle embroydred amonge.
     Ha ha ha, by sweet St. An,
     Jockie is growne a gentleman.

Thy garters that were of the Spanish say,
Which from the taylor thow stoll'st away,
Are now quite turnd to silk, they say,
With great broade laces fayre and gay.
     Ha ha ha, by sweet St, An.
     Jockie is growne a gentleman.

Thy doublet and breech that were so playne,
On which a louse could scarse remayne,
Are turnd to sattin, god a mercie brayne,
That thow by begging could'st this obtayne.
     Ha ha ha, by sweet St. An,
     Jockie is growne a gentleman.

Thy cloake which was made of a home-spun thread,
Which thow wast wonte to flinge on thy bed. 
Is turnd into a skarlet red,
With golden laces aboute thee spread.
     Ha ha ha, by sweet St. An,
     Jockie is growne a gentleman.

Thy bonnet of blew which thow wor'st hether,
To keep thy skonce from wind and wether,
Is throwne away the devill knowes whether,
And turnd to a bever bat and feather.
     Ha ha ha, by sweet St. An,
     Jockie is growne a gentleman.

Westminster hall was covered with lead,
And so was St. John many a day;
The Scotchmen have begd it to buy them bread;
The devill take all such Jockies away!
     Ha ha ha, by sweet St. An,
     Jockie is growne a gentleman.

* MS. Whether is the old spelling for whither, as in the 8th stanza also.



[Black letter; for the assigns of Symcocke.]

POOR Harpalus opprest with love
     Sat by a chrystal brook:
Thinking his sorrows to remove,
     Oftimes therein to look,
And hearing how on pebble stones,
     The murmuring river ran,
As if it had bewail'd his groans,
     Unto it thus began.

Fair stream, quoth he, that pities me,
     And hears my matchless moan,
If thou be going to the sea,
     As I do now suppone,
Attend my plaints past all relief,
     Which dolefully I breath,
Acquaint the sea nymphs with the grief
     Which still procures my death.

Who sitting in the cliffy rocks
     May in their songs express,
While as they comb their golden locks,
     Poor Harpalus' distress;
And so perhaps some passenger
     That passeth by the way,
May stay, and listen for to hear,
     Them sing this doleful lay.

Poor Harpalus a shepherd swain
     More rich in youth than store,
Lov'd fair Philena, hapless man,
     Philena oh therefore!
Who still, remorseless-hearted maid,
     Took pleasure in his pain:
And his good will, poor soul, repaid,
     With undeserv'd disdain.

Ne'er shepherd lov'd a shepherdess
     More faithfully than he,
Ne'er shepherd yet beloved less
     Of shepherdess could be,
How oft did he with dying looks,
     To her his woes impart,
How oft his sighs did testify
     The dolour of his heart.

How oft from vallies to the hills
     Did he his grief rehearse,
How oft re-echoed they his ills
     Aback again alas!
How oft on barks of stately pines,
     Of beech, of holly green,
Did he engrave in mournful lines
     The grief he did sustain.

Yet all his plaints could have no place
     To change Philena's mind,
The more his sorrows did encrease
     The more she prov'd unkind,
The thought thereof with wearied care
     Poor Harpalus did move,
That, overcome with high despair,
     He lost both life and love.



To the tune of Frog's Galliard.

[Black letter, for the Assigns of Symcocke.]

ON yonder hill there springs a flower,
     Pair befall the dainty sweet,
And by that flower there stands a bower
     Where all the heavenly Muses meet,
And in that bower there stands a chair,
     Fringed all about with gold,
And therein sits the fairest fair
     That ever did mine eyes behold.

It was Phillida fair and bright,
     And the shepherd's only joy,
She whom Venus most did spite,
     And the blinded little boy,
It was she the wise, the rich,
     Whom all the world did joy to see,
It was, Ipsa quæ, the which,
     There was none but only she.

Thou art the shepherd's queen,
     Pity me, thy woful swain,
For by thy virtue Lave been seen
     Dead men restored to life again;
Look on me now with thy fair eyes
     One smiling look and I am gone,.
Look on me for I am he,
     Thy poor afflicted Corydon.

Dead I am to all delights,
     Except thy mercy quicken me,
Grant, oh queen, or else I die,
     A salve for this my malady,
The while we sing with cheerful noise,
     Wood nymphs and satyrs all may play,
With silver sounding music's voice,
     Rejoicing at this happy day.




The Unhappy Maid's Misfortune."

"Since she did from her friends depart,
  No earthly thing can cheer her heart,
  But still she doth her case lament,
  Being always filled with discontent,
  Resolving to do nought but mourn,
  Till to the north she doth return."

To the tune, — I would I were in my own country.

A NORTH country lass
          Up to London did pass,
Although with her nature it did not agree,
          Which made her repent,
          And so often lament,
Still wishing again in the North for to be,
     O the oak, the ash, and the bonny ivy tree,
Do flourish at hone in my own country.

          Fain would I be,
          In the north country
Where the lads and the lasses are making of hay,
          There should I see
          What is pleasant to me,
A mischief light on them entic'd me away!
     O the oak, the ash, and the bonny ivy tree
Do flourish most bravely in our country.

          Since that I came forth
          Of the pleasant North,
There's nothing delightful I see doth abound,
          They never can be
          Half so merry as we,
When we are a dancing of Sellinger's round.
     O the oak, the ash, and the bonny ivy tree.
Do flourish at home in our own country.

          I like not the court,
          Nor the city resort,
Since there is no fancy for such maids as we,
          Their pomp and their pride
          I can never abide;
Because with my humour it doth not agree.
     O the oak, the ash, and the bonny ivy tree,
Do flourish at home in my own country.

          How oft have I been
          On the Westmorland green,
Where the young men and maidens resort for to play,
          Where we with delight
          From morning till night,
Could feast it and frolick on each holyday.
     O the oak, the ash, and the bonny ivy tree,
Do flourish most bravely in our country.

          A milking to go,
          All the maids on a row,
It was a fine sight and pleasant to see,
          But here in the city,
          They are void of pity,
There is no enjoyment of liberty.
     O the oak, the ash, and the bonny ivy tree,
They flourish most bravely in our country.

          When I had the heart
          From my friends to depart,
I thought I should be a lady at last:
          But now do I find,
          That it troubles my mind,
Because that my joys and pleasures are past.
     O the oak, the ash, and the bonny ivy tree,
They flourish at home in my own country.

          The ewes and the lambs
          With the kids and their dams,
To see in the country how finely they play,
          The bells they do ring,
          And the birds they do sing,
And the fields and the gardens so pleasant and gay.
     O the oak, the ash, and the bonny ivy tree,
They flourish most bravely in our country.

          At wakes and at fairs
          Being void of all cares,
We there with our lovers did use for to dance,
          Then hard hap had I,
          My ill fortune to try,
And so up to London my steps to advance.
     O the oak, the ash, and the bonny ivy tree,
They flourish most bravely in our country.

          Yet still I perceive
          I a husband might have,
If I to the city, my mind could but frame,
          But I'll, have a lad
          That is north country bred,
Or else I'll not marry in the mind that I am.
     O the oak, the ash, and the bonny ivy tree,
They flourish most bravely in our country.

          A maiden I am,
          And a maid I'll remain,
Untill my own country again I do see,
          For here in this place
          I shall n'er see the face
Of him, that's allotted my love for to be.
     O the oak, the ash, and the bonny ivy tree,
They flourish at home in my own country.

          Then farewell my daddy,
          And farewell my mammy,
Untill I do see you I nothing but mourn,
          Remembring my brothers,
          My sisters and others,
In less than a year I hope to return;
     Then the oak, and the ash, and the bonny ivy tree,
I shall see them at home in my own country.



[From the "Handefull of Pleasant Delites," 1584.]

"To Calen o Custure me: sung at everie lines end."

WHEN as I view your comely grace,
Your golden hairs, your angel face,
Your azured veins much like the skies,
Your silver teeth, your christal eyes,
Your coral lips, your crimson cheek,
That Gods and men both love and leek.

Your pretty mouth with divers gifts,
Which driveth wise men to their shifts,
So brave, so fine, so trim., so young,
With heavenly wit, and pleasant tongue,
That Pallas though she did excell,
Could frame, ne tell a tale so well.

Your voice so sweet, your neck so white,
Your body fine, and small in sight:
Your fingers long so nimble be,
To utter forth such harmony,
As all the Muses for a space,
To sit and hear, do give you place.

Your pretty foot with all the rest
That may be seen, or may be guest:
Doth bear such shape, that beauty may
Give place to thee, and go her way;
And Paris now must change his doom,
For Venus, lo, must give thee room.

Whose gleams doth heat my heart as fier,
Although I burn, yet would I nigher,
Within myself then can I say,
The night is gone, behold the day:
Behold the star so clear and bright,
As dims the sight of Phoebus light.

Whose fame by pen for to discrive,
Doth pass each wight that is alive:
Then how dare I with boldned face
Presume to crave, or wish your grace?
And thus amazed as I stand,
Not feeling sense, nor mooving hand.
My soul with silence-mooving sense,
Doth wish of God with reverence,
Long life and virtue you possess
To match those gifts of worthiness;
And love and pity may be spied
To be your chief and only guide.




Fain wold I have a pretie thing
To give unto my ladie,"

To the tune of — Lusty Gallant.

[From Robinson's "Handefull of Pleasant Delites," 1584.]

FAIN would I have a pretty thing
     To give unto my lady,
I name no thing, nor I mean no thing,
     But as pretty a thing as may be.

Twenty journeys would I make,
     And twenty ways would hie me,
To make adventure for her sake
     To set some matter by me.

Some do long for pretty knacks,
     And some for strange devices,
God send me that my lady lacks,
     I care not what the price is.

Some go here, and some go there
     Where gazes be not geason,*
And I go gaping every where.
     But still come out of season.

I walk the town, and tread the street,
     In every corner seeking
The pretty thing I cannot meet,
     That's for my lady's liking.

The mercers pull me going by,
     The silk wives say What lack ye?
The thing you have not, then say I,
     Ye foolish fools go pack ye.

It is not all the silk in Cheap,
     Nor all the golden treasure,
Nor twenty bushels on a heap,
     Can do my lady pleasure.

The gravers of the golden shows,
     With jewels do beset me,
The semstress' in the shops that sew,
     They nothing do but let me.

But were it in the wit of man,
     By any means to make it,
I could for money buy it then,
     And say, Fair lady, take it.

O lady, what a luck is this,
     That my good willing misseth
To find what pretty thing it is
     That my good lady wisheth.

Thus fain would I have had this pretty thing
     To give unto my lady:
I said no harm, nor I meant no harm,
     But as pretty a thing as may be.

        * Where shows or public exhibitions
                 are not uncommon.




     "Then Albina think no more of Dorosa's beauty or valiancy; yea, if thou canst not quench the coales of desire with forgetfulness, yet rake them up in the ashes of modesty; bear a painted sheath with a leaden dagger, and a merry countenance with a melancholy mind; and of all thy father's knights esteem Dorosa the least, yea, and so rauch the less as he is the latest.
     With this she taking her lute that lay at her bed's head warbled forth this ditty:"

     ALL this night
     By his might,
Love hath made my heart his cell;
     Venus joy,
     Wanton boy,
From mine eyes did rest expel.
     Wanton sports,
     Wily ports,
Slippery slights, and foolish love,
     His intent,
     To invent,
How to catch the simple dove.

     Blinded boy,
     Venus joy,
All thy god-head is a toy,
     Power small
     To enthrall,
Or to work my heart's annoy.

     I have right
     Armour bright,
Compound of rare chastity;
     This I say
     Night and day,
Shall withstand thy deity.

     Then pack hence,
     Hie thee hence,
Or with nettles I'll thee whip,
     For thy sin
     Thou shalt win
Scourges that will make thee skip.


"A pleasant ditty of a mayden's vow,
That faine would marry and yet knew not how."

[From a black letter copy by H. G. id est, Henry Gosson.]

THERE was a lusty youthful lad
     That lov'd a country lass,
And many a sweet discourse they had
     As they alone did pass.
This young man he was apt to woo,
     And well himself could carry,
The maid was kind, of yielding mind,
     But yet she would not marry.

This young's man's heart was set on fire,
     And still he did invent,
How he might compass his desire,
     And frustrate her intent.
For still this maid. said as before,
     From all thy hopes I'll bar thee,
Therefore begone, let me alone,
     In sooth I will not marry.

This answer much dismayed him,
     And troubled so his mind,
That he thereat lookt pale and grim,
     And no content could find,
This maiden she was nothing mov'd,
     Nor from her words would vary,
But constantly she did reply,
     I'll never yield to marry.

My love, quoth he, is so entire,
     And firm to thee, my dear,
Whose love again I much desire
     With many a weeping tear,
Therefore sweet-heart be not unkind,
     Nor say that thou wilt tarry,
But let me prove thy constant love,
     And then consent to marry.

Didst thou but know the inward grief
     I suffer for thy love;
Thy flinty heart would yield relief,
     Or more obdurate prove:
My legs are grown so weak, that they
     My body scarce can carry,
Then yield relief to ease my grief,
     And, give consent to marry.

No, no, quoth she, thy flatt'ring tongue
     Shall ne'er obtain his suit,
Thy tempting words have done me wrong,
     Therefore I pray be mute:
For I am fully purposed
     Henceforth to be more wary;
Therefore away, make no delay,
     For in sooth I will not marry.

He asked her the reason why
     She would reject him so
She would not wed, she did reply,
     For friend nor yet for foe:
Quoth she, my years are yet but green,
     I am young enough to tarry
This twelve-month's day, therefore away,
     'Tis time enough to marry.

Quoth he, it makes me half despair,
     And troubleth my mind,
That one so comely and so fair,
     Should ere prove so unkind:
Therefore sweet-heart tell me the cause,
     That thou so much doth vary,
From all the minds of women-kind,
     As to refuse to marry.


Didst thou but know the sweet delights,
     That marriage doth afford.
And how fair ladies, lords, and knights,
     In marriage bed accord;
Thou would'st not fondly make reply,
     Th' art young enough to tarry,
But be content, and give consent
     Without delay to marry.

He that says love is vanity,
     Shall ne'er persuade me to it,
Nor yet deny a courtesy,
     If any one will do it:
For I have made a vow, quoth she,
     And sworn by great King Harry,
That till I have the thing I crave,
     I will not yield to marry.

If I had known the cause, quoth he,
     Why thou didst make denial.,
I quickly would have proffer'd thee
     A sweet contending trial:
Which would have made thee soon consent,
     Though thou wert ne'er so wary,
And never more say as. before,
     I’ll never yield to marry.

Then use your wit, the maid replied,
     For now you know the cause,
A maiden's No proves often Aye
     To yield to Hymen's laws,
If you prove kind, the maiden said,
     Consent and do not tarry,
And then I soon will change this tune,
     And quickly yield to marry.

With that the young man bad her, but
     Keep secret and prove kind,
And he would verify her oath,
     And satisfy her mind:
Quoth she, I will be satisfied
     If that thou dost not vary,
But yet, in troth, I am very loath
     To, give my grant to marry.

With that they both concluded were,
     But wot you how she sped,
By consequence it did appear
     That it her liking bred,
For when her oath was verified
     That she swore by King Harry,
She never stay'd, but quickly said,
     Sweetheart now let us marry.

This young's man's love was quickly cold,
     That here betwixt them past,
Quoth he, I will not be too bold,
     Least I repent at last:
For he that weds too hastily,
     Had need for to be wary,
Beast he repent he gave consent
     Without advice to marry.

Fair maidens all take good advice
     Before you give consent,
Unto your loves in any wise
     These follies to prevent;
For she that to perform her vow,
     So long a time did tarry,
Was brought to shame, and much defame.
     Before that she did marry.



[From "the Muses Garden. 1610."]

My father fain would have me take
     A man that hath a beard,
My mother she cries out, a-lack!
     And makes me much afraid,
Forsooth I am not old enough,
     Now surely this is goodly stuff,
Faith let my mother marry me,
     Or else my father bury me.

For I have liv'd these fourteen years,
     My mother knows it well,
What need she then to cast such fears,
     Can any body tell!
As though young women do not know
     That custom will not let them woo;
I would be glad if I might chuse,
     But I were mad if I refuse.

My mother bids me go to school,
     And learn to do some good,
'Twere well if she would let the fool,
     Come home and suck a dug,
As if my father knew not yet
     That maidens are for young men fit;
Give me my mind and let me wed,
     Or you shall quickly find me dead.

How soon my mother hath forgot
     That ever she was young,
And how that she denied not,
     But sung another song,
I must not speak what I do think,
     When I am dry I may not drink;
Though her desire be now grown old
     She must have fire when she is cold.

You see the mother loves the son,
     The father loves the maid;
What, would she have me be a nun?
     I will not be delay'd,
I will not live thus idle still,
     My mother shall not have her will,
My father speaketh like a man,
     I will be married do what she can.

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