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, But chiefly by his face and mien, O lady he's dead and gone! Within these holy cloysters long Here Here bore him barefac'd on his bier And many a tear bedew'd his grave And art thou dead, thou gentle youth! And art thou dead and gone e! And did'ft thou die for love of me! O weep not, lady, weep not so; O do not, do not, holy friar, 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, O fay not fo, thou holy friar ; For fince my true-love died for me, 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, One foot on fea and one on land, Had'ft thou been fond, he had been false, For young men ever were fickle found, 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 |