BALLADS

AND

PASTORAL SONGS.

T was a friar of orders *

It was a friar

gray,

Walk'd forth to tell his beads ;

And he met with a lady fair,

Clad in a pilgrim's weeds.

Now

*IN the Reliques of antient English poetry Dr. Percy gives us the following ballad, as formed upon a number of detached fragments of antient compofition, which he has attempted to fill up and throw into a little connected tale. Though his modesty has induced him to place it among his antique remains, I think it but juftice to him and to my own collection to place it here as a very judicious and beautiful imitation of the atnient ballad; for certainly he has the best right to it, fince the merit of the ftory is all his own, and the difficulty of interweaving the few antient stanzas into it, and suiting his own language to them with fuch judgment, was greater than that of producing an entirely new piece.

Now Chrift thee fave, thou reverend friar,

I pray thee tell to me,

If ever at yon holy fhrine

My true love thou did’st see.

And how fhould I know your true love

From many another one?

O by his cockle hat and staff,
And by his fandal fhoon.

But chiefly by his face and mien,
That were fo fair to view;
His flaxen locks that fweetly curl'd,
And eyne of lovely blue.

O lady he's dead and gone!
Lady he's dead and gone!
And at his head a green grass turf,
And at his heels a ftone.

Within these holy cloysters long
He languifh'd, and he died,
Lamenting of a lady's love,
And 'plaining of her pride.

Here

Here bore him barefac'd on his bier
Six proper youths and tall,

And many a tear bedew'd his grave
Within yon kirk-yard wall.

And art thou dead, thou gentle youth!

And art thou dead and gone

e!

And did'ft thou die for love of me!
Break, cruel heart of stone!

O weep not, lady, weep not so;
Some ghoftly comfort feek:
Let not vain forrow rive thy heart,
Nor tears bedew thy cheek.

O do not, do not, holy friar,
My forrow now reprove;
For I have loft the sweetest youth,
That e'er won Lady's love.

And now, alas! for thy fad lofs

I'll evermore weep and figh; For thee I only wish'd to live,

For thee I wish to die.

Weep

Weep no more, lady, weep no more,

Thy forrow is in vain :

For, violets pluck'd the sweetest showers Will ne'er make grow again.

Our joys as winged dreams do fly,
Why then should forrow last ?
Since grief but aggravates thy lofs,
Grieve not for what is past.

O fay not fo, thou holy friar ;
I pray thee, fay not so:

For fince my true-love died for me,
'Tis meet my tears should flow,

And will he ne'er come again?

Will he ne'er come again?

Ah! no, he is dead and laid in his

grave,

For ever to remain.

His cheek was redder than the rose,

The com❜lieft youth was he :

But he is dead and laid in his

grave:

Alas! and woe is me!

Sigh no more, lady, figh no more,
Men were deceivers ever:

One foot on fea and one on land,
To one thing constant never.

Had'ft thou been fond, he had been false,
And left thee fad and heavy;

For young men ever were fickle found,
Since fummer trees were leafy.

Now fay not fo, thou holy friar,

I

pray thee fay not fo;

My love he had the trueft heart:

O he was ever true!

And art thou dead, thou much-lov'd youth,

And didft thou die for me?

Then farewel home; for, ever-more

A pilgrim I will be.

But firft upon my true-love's grave

My weary limbs I'll lay,

And thrice I'll kiss the green-grafs turf,

That wraps his breathlefs clay.

Yet