"Oh, say not so, thou holy friar, I pray thee say not so; For since my true-love died for me, And will he never come again? Ah! no, he is dead and laid in his grave, His cheek was redder than the rose; But he is dead and laid in his grave: 66 Sigh no more, lady, sigh no more; One foot on sea and one on land, Hadst thou been fond, he had been false, For young men ever were fickle found, And art thou dead, thou much-lov'd youth, And didst thou die for me ? Then farewell, home; for evermore A pilgrim I will be. But first upon my true-love's grave My weary limbs I'll lay, And thrice I'll kiss the green-grass turf That wraps his breathless clay." "Yet stay, fair lady, rest awhile Beneath this cloister wall; See, through the hawthorn blows cold the wind, And drizzly rain doth fall.” Here forced by grief and hopeless love, And here amid these lonely walls To end my days I thought. But haply, for my year of grace Might I still hope to win thy love, No longer would I stay." "Now farewell grief, and welcome joy Once more unto my heart; For since I have found thee, lovely youth, Dispersed through Shakspeare's plays are innumerable little fragments of ancient ballads, the entire copies of which could not be recovered. Many of these being of the most beautiful and pathetic simplicity, the editor of " Percy's Reliques" was tempted to select some of them, and with a few supplemental stanzas to connect them together and form them into a little tale, which is here submitted to the reader's candour. One small fragment was taken from Beaumont and Fletcher.-PERCY. In cots where the lowly mourn; At her coming go, Fair is the miller's daughter too, She hath lighten'd toil With her winning smile; He hath loved so long, And the miller's heart was glad. Merrily rolls the mill-stream on, &c. THE MILLER. CRARLES HIGHMORE. Written for Robert Dodsley's entertainment, "The King and Miller of Mansfield." possess, How happy a state does the miller What though he all dusty and whiten'd does go, Than a courtier who struts in his garter and star. Though his hands are so daub'd they're not fit to be seen, The hands of his betters are not very clean; A palm more polite may as dirtily deal Gold in handling will stick to the fingers like méal. What if, when a pudding for dinner he lacks, Or should he endeavour to heap an estate, He eats when he's hungry, he drinks when he's dry, The "Miller" seems to have been a favourite character with our song writers from the earliest times, and to have been generally depicted as a model of sturdy independence. There is a song upon the subject in the poems of John Cunningham. See Bell's edition of the "British Poets," vol. ciii. The sentiment in the two concluding lines of the "Miller" is borrowed from the more ancient song of the "Jovial Beggars." THE PRETTY PARROT. From AIKIN'S "Vocal Poetry." PRETTY Parrot, say, when I was away, All were gay, Night and day Good cheer and mirth renewing, Singing, laughing all, like pretty, pretty Poll." Was no fop so rude boldly to intrude, Court and teaze my lady? "A thing, you know, Made for show, Call'd a beau, Near her was always ready; Ever at her call, like pretty, pretty Poll." Tell me with what air he approached the fair, And how she could with patience bear |