relish the beauties of this kind that we are possessed of. The little collection of Ballads and Pastoral Songs here offered, contains some of the sweetest flowers of English poetry.

BALLADS

AND

PASTORAL SONG S.

IT

FRIAR OF ORDERS GRAY.

[By Percy.]

T was a friar of orders gray,*
Walk'd forth to tell his beads;

And he met with a lady fair,

Clad in a pilgrim's weeds.

* In the Reliques of ancient English Poetry, Dr. Percy gives us the following Ballad, as formed upon a number of detached fragments of ancient composition, 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 justice to him and to my own collection to place it here as a very judicious and beautiful imitation of the ancient Ballad; for certainly he has the best right to it, since the merit of the story is all his own, and the difficulty of interweaving the few ancient stanzas into it, and suiting his own language to them with such judgment, was greater than that of producing an entirely new piece.

Now Christ thee save, thou reverend friar,

I pray thee tell to me,

If ever at yon holy shrine

My true love thou did'st see.

And how should I know your true love

From many another one?
O by his cockle* hat and staff,
And by his sandal shoon.

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

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

Within these holy cloisters long

He languish'd, and he died,

Lamenting of a lady's love,

And 'plaining of her pride.

* These are the distinguishing marks of a Pilgrim. The chief places of devotion being beyond the sea, the pil grims were wont to put cockle-shells in their hats to denote the intention, or performance of their devotion.

Here bore him barefac'd on his bier

Six proper youths and tall, And many a tear bedew'd his

Within yon kirk-yard wall.

grave

And art thou dead, thou gentle youth!
And art thou dead and gone!

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

O weep not, lady, weep not so;
Some ghostly comfort seek :
Let not vain sorrow rive thy heart,
Nor tears bedew thy cheek.

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

And now, alas! for thy sad loss

I'll evermore weep and sigh;

For thee I only wish'd to live,
For thee I wish to die.

Weep no more, lady,. weep no more,

Thy sorrow is in vain :

For, violets pluck'd the sweetest showers

Will ne'er make grow again.