"But seeing we must go before the king, Lord, we will go most gallantly; Ye shall every one have a velvet coat, Laid down with golden laces three: "And you shall every one have a scarlet cloak,

Laid down with silver laces five; With your golden belts about your necks, With hats and feathers all alike." But when John he went from Giltnock Hall, The wind it blew hard, and full fast it did

rain:

"Now fare thee well, thou Giltnock Hall, I fear I shall never see thee again." Now John is to Edinburgh gone,

With his eight-score men so gallantly, And every one of them on a milk-white steed,

With their bucklers and swords hanging to their knee.

But when John came the king before,

With his eight-score men so gallant to see, The king he moved his bonnet to him,

He thought he had been a king as well as he.

"O pardon, pardon, my sovereign liege, Pardon for my eight-score men and me; For my name it is John Armstrong,

And a subject of yours, my liege," said he.

Away with thee, thou false traitor,

No pardon will I grant to thee,

But, to-morrow 'morn' by eight of the clock,

I will hang up thy eight-score men and thee."

Then John look'd over his left shoulder,
And to his merry men thus said he,
"I have ask'd grace of a graceless face,
No pardon there is for you or me."
Then John pull'd out his nut-brown sword,
And it was made of metal so free,
Had not the king mov'd his foot as he did,
John had taken his head from his fair body.
"Come, follow me, my merry men all,
We will scorn one foot for to fly,
It shall ne'er be said we were hung like dogs,
We will fight it out most manfully."

Then they fought on like champions bold, For their hearts were sturdy, stout, and free,

Till they had kill'd all the king's good guard, There was none left alive but two or three.

But then rose up all Edinburgh,

They rose up by thousands three, A cowardly Scot came John behind, And run him through the fair body.

Said John, "Fight on, my merry men all, I am a little wounded, but am not slain; I will lay me down for to bleed a while, Then I'll rise and fight with you again."

Then they fought on like madmen all,

Till many a man lay dead upon the plain, For they were resolved, before they would yield,

That every man would there be slain.

So there they fought courageously,

Till most of them lay dead there and slain;

But little Musgrave that was his foot-page, With his bonny Grissel got away unta'en.

But when he came to Giltnock Hall, The lady spied him presently; "What news, what news, thou little footpage,

What news from thy master, and his company?"

"My news is bad, ladỳ,” he said,

Which I do bring, as you may see; My master Johnny Armstrong is slain, And all his gallant company."

"Yet thou art welcome home, my bonny Grissèl,

Full oft hast thou been fed with corn and hay,

But now thou shalt be fed with bread and wine,

And thy sides shall be spurr'd no more,
I say."

O then bespake his little son,

As he sat on his nurse's knee, "If ever I live to be a man,

My father's death revenged shall be."

WHEN Troy town had, for ten years

'past,'

Withstood the Greeks in manful wise, Then did their foes increase so fast,

That to resist none could suffice:

Waste lie those walls that were so good, And corn now grows where Troy town stood.

Eneas, wandering Prince of Troy,

When he for land long time had sought,

At length, arriving' with great joy,
To mighty Carthage walls was brought;
Where Dido queen, with sumptuous
feast,

Did entertain this wandering guest.
And, as in hall at meat they sat,

The queen, desirous news to hear,
Says, "Of thy Troy's unhappy fate,
Declare to me, thou Trojan dear:
The heavy hap, and chance so bad,
Which thou, poor wandering prince, hast
had."

And then, anon, this comely knight,

With words demure, as he could well,
Of their' unhappy ten years' 'fight,'
So true a tale began to tell,
With words so sweet, and sighs so deep,
That oft he made them all to weep.
And then a thousand sighs he fetch'd,

And every sigh brought tears amain;
That where he sate the place was wet,
As he had seen those wars again;
So that the queen, with ruth therefore,
Said, Worthy prince, enough, no more.
The darksome night apace grew on,
And twinkling stars in skies were spread;
And he his doleful tale had done,'

And every one was laid in bed; Where they full sweetly took their rest, Save only Dido's boiling breast.

This silly woman never slept,

But in her chamber all alone, As one unhappy, always wept,

And to the walls she made her moan; That she should still desire in vain The thing that she could not obtain. And thus in grief she spent the night, Till twinkling stars from sky were fled, And Phoebus, with his glittering light,' Through misty clouds appeared red; Then tidings came to her anon, That all the Trojan ships were gone. And then the queen, with bloody knife, Did arm her heart as hard as stone, Yet, somewhat loth to lose her life,

In woeful wise she made her moan;
And, rolling on her careful bed,
With sighs and sobs, these words she said:
O wretched Dido queen! quoth she,
I see thy end approacheth near;
For he is gone away from thee,

Whom thou didst love, and 'hold'
Is he then gone, and passed by?
O heart, prepare thyself to die.

SO

[dear:

When Death had pierc'd the tender heart
Of Dido, Carthaginian queen :
And bloody knife did end the smart,
Which she sustain'd in woeful teen,-
Eneas being shipp'd and gone.
Whose flattery caused all her moan.—

Her funeral most costly made,
And all things furnish'd mournfully;
Her body fine in mould was laid,

Where it consumed speedily:
Her sister's tears her tomb bestrew'd;
Her subjects' grief their kindness shew'd.
Then was Æneas in an isle,

In Grecia, where he liv'd long space, Whereas her sister, in short while,

Writ to him to his vile disgrace; In phrase of letters to her mind, She told him plain he was unkind. False-hearted wretch, quoth she, thou art; And treacherously thou hast betray'd Unto thy lure a gentle heart,

Which unto thee such welcome made;
My sister dear, and Carthage joy,
Whose folly wrought her dire annoy.

Yet, on her deathbed when she lay,
She pray'd for thy pro-perity,
Beseeching Heaven, that every day
Might breed thy great felicity:
Thus, by thy means I lost a friend;
Heaven send thee such untimely end!

When he these lines, full fraught with gall,
Perused had, and weigh'd them right,
His lofty courage then did fall,

And straight appeared in his sight Queen Dido's ghost, both grim and pale; Which made this gallant soldier quail.

Eneas, quoth this grisly ghost,

My whole delight while I did live,
Thee of all men I loved most;

My fancy and my will did give:
For entertainment I thee gave,
Unthankfully thou 'dug'st' my grave.

Therefore prepare thy fleeting soul
To wander with me in the air;
Where deadly grief shall make it howl,
Because of me thou took'st no care:
Delay no time, thy glass is run,
Thy day is pass'd, thy death is come.

O stay a while, thou lovely sprite;
Be not so hasty to convey

My soul into eternal night,

Where it shall ne'er behold bright day. O do not frown,-thy angry look Hath all my soul with horror shook.'

But, woe to me! it is in vain,

And bootless is my dismal cry; Time will not be recall'd again,

Nor thou surcease before I die: O let me live, to make amends Unto some of thy dearest friends.

But, seeing thou obdurate art,
And wilt no pity to me show,
Because from thee I did depart,

And left unpaid what I did owe,
I must content myself to take
What lot thou wilt with me partake.

And, like one being in a trance,
A multitude of ugly fiends
About this woeful prince did dance,
No help he had of any friends;
His body then they took away,
And no man knew his dying day.

I CANNOT eate but lytle meate,
My stomacke is not good;

But sure I thinke that I can drynke
With him that weares a hood.
Though I go bare take ye no care,
I am nothinge a colde;
I stuff my skyn so full within,
Of joly good ale and olde.

Backe and side go bare, go bare,
Booth foote and hande go colde:
But belly, God sende thee good ale
inoughe,

Whether it be new or olde.

I loue no rost, but a nut-browne toste,
And a crab laid in the fyre;
A little breade shall do me stead,
Much breade I do not desyre.

No frost nor snow, nor winde I trowe,
Can hurte mee if I wolde,

I am so wrapt, and throwly lapt,
Of joly good ale and olde.
Backe and side, &c.

P. 85.

And Tyb my wyfe, that as her lyfe,

Loueth well good ale to seeke,
Full oft drynkes shee, tyll ye may see

The teares run downe her cheeke:
Then doth she trowle to me the bowle,
Euen as a mault-worm shuld;
And sayth, sweete hart, I tooke my part
Of this joly good ale and olde.
Backe and side, &c.

Now let them drynke tyll they nod and winke,

Even as good felowes shoulde doe: They shall not mysse to have the blisse, Good ale doth bringe men to.

And all poore scules that have scowred boules

Or have them lustely trolde,

God saue the lyues of them and their

LONG ere the morn

Expects the return

Of Apollo from th' Ocean Queen:

Before the creak

Of the crow, and the break
Of the day in the welkin seen;

Mounted he'd hallow,
And cheerfully follow,
To the chase with his bugle clear;
Echo doth he make,

And the mountains shake,
With the thunder of his career.

Now bonny Bay

In his foine waxeth gray,

Dapple-grey waxeth bay in his blood; White Lilly stops,

With the scent in her chaps, And Black Lady makes it good; Poor silly Wat,

In this wretched state,

Forgets these delights for to hear;
Nimbly she bounds

From the cry of the hounds,
And the music of their career.

Hills with the heat
Of the gallopers sweat,
Reviving their frozen tops:

The dale's purple flowers,
That drop from the showers,
That down from the rowels drops:
Swains their repast

And strangers their haste
Neglect, when the horns they do hear;
To see a fleet

Pack of hounds in a sheet,

And the hunter in his career.

Thus he careers

Over heaths, over meers,

Over deeps, over downs, over clay;
Till he hath won

The noon from the morn,

And the evening from the day:
His sport then he ends,
And joyfully wends

Home again to his cottage, where
Frankly he feasts

Himself and his guests,
And carouses in his career.

Apple.