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And with a pitchfork that was sharp,

They rent him to the heart, And like a thief for treason vile,

They bound him in a cart.

And tending him with weapons strong,

Unto the town they hie,
And straight they mow'd him in a mow,

And there they let him lie.

Then he lay groaning by the walls,

Till all his wounds were sore ; At length they took him up again,

And cast him on the floor.

They hired two men with holly clubs,

To beat at him at once ;
They thwacked so hard on Barley-corn

That flesh fell from his bones.

And then they took him up again,

To fulfil women's mind, They dusted and they sifted him,

'Till he was almost blind.

And then they knit him in a sack,

Which grieved him full sore ; "They steep'd him in a vat, God wot,

For three days' space and more.

.And then they took him up again,

And laid him for to dry, They cast him on a chamber-floor,

And swore that he should die.

They rubbed him and stirred him,

And oft did toil and turn,
The malt-man likewise vowed his death,

His body he would burn.

They pulled and hauled him up in spite,

And threw him on a kiln,
And dried him o'er a fire bright,"

The more to work their will.

Then to the mill they forced him straight,

Where, as they bruised his bones, The miller swore to murder him

Betwixt a pair of stones.

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All you good wives that brew good ale,

God keep you from all teen,
But if you put too much water in,

The devil put out your eyne !

1

This ballad, of which a modern version, slightly altered from the above by Robert Burns, has become more popular than its prototype, was originally sung to the tune of “ Stingo,' or “Oyle of Barley.” The same tune was afterwards called “Cold and Raw."

“ This tune," says Sir John Hawkins, in his History of Music, “was greatly admired by Queen Mary, the consort of King William; and she once affronted Purcell by requesting to have it sung to her, he being present. The story is as follows:- The Queen having a mind, one afternoon, to be entertained with music, sent to Mr. Gosling, then one of her Chapel, and afterwards Sub-Dean of St. Paul's, to Henry Purcell, and to Mrs. Arabella Hunt, who had a very fine voice, and an admirable hand on the lute, with a request to attend her. They obeyed her commands. Mr. Gosling and Mrs. Hunt sang several compositions of Purcell, who accompanied them on the harpsichord. At length, the Queen, beginning to grow tired, asked Mrs. Ilunt if she could not sing the ballad of Cold and Raw;' Mrs. Hunt answered, yes, and sung it to her lute. Purcell was all the while sitting at the harpsichord, unemployed, and not a little nettled at the Queen's preference of a vulgar ballad to his music, but seeing her Majesty delighted with this tune, he determined that she should hear it upon another occasion; and, accordingly, in the next birth-day song; viz.-that for the year 1692, he composed an air to the words "May her bright example chace vice in troops ont of the land,' the bass whereof is the tune to 'Cold and Raw.””

THE FAIRY QUEEN.

From “Percy's Reliques.”

Come, follow, follow me,
You, fairy elves that be:
Which circle on the green,

Come, follow Mab your queen.
Hand in hand let 's dance around,
For this place is fairy ground.

When mortals are at rest,
And snoring in their nest;
Unheard, and unespied,

Through key-holes we do glide;
Over tables, stools, and shelves,
We trip it with our fairy elves.

And, if the house be foul
With platter, dish, and bowl,
Up stairs we nimbly creep,

And find the sluts asleep :
There we pinch their arms and thighs;
None escapes, nor none espies.

But if the house be swept,
And from uncleanness kept,
We praise the household maid,

And duly she is paid :
For we use before we go
To drop a tester in her shoe.

Upon a mushroom's head
Our table-cloth we spread ;
A grain of rye, or wheat,

Is manchet, which we eat :
Pearly drops of dew we drink,
In acorn cups fillid to the brink.

The brains of nightingales,
With unctuous fat of snails,
Between two cockles stew'd,

Is meat that 's easily chew'd;
Tails of worms, and marrow of mice,
Do make a dish that's wondrous nice.

The grasshopper, gnat, and fly,
Serve for our minstrelsy ;
Grace said, we dance a while,

And so the time beguile :
And if the moon doth her head,
The glow-worm lights us home to bed.

On tops of dewy grass
So nimbly do we pass,
The young and tender stalk

Ne'er bends when we do walk: .
Yet in the morning may be seen
Where we the night before have been.

We have here a short display of the popular belief concerning fairies. It will afford entertainment to a contemplative mind to trace these whimsical opinions up to their origin. Whoever considers how early, how extensively, and how uniformly, they have prevailed in these nations, will not readily assent to the hypothesis of those who fetch them from the East so late as the time of the Crusades. Whereas it is well known that our Saxon ancestors, long before they left their German forests, believed in the existence of a kind of diminutive demons, or middle species between men and spirits whom they called Duergars or Dwarfs, and to whom they attributed many wonderful performances, far exceeding human art. Vid. Hervarer Saga Olaj Verelj. 1675. Hickes Thesaur, &c. This song is given (with some corrections by another copy) from a book entitled “The Mysteries of Love and Eloquence," &c. Lond. 1658. 870.-DR. PERCY.

AWAY WITH GRIEF.

rom Hugh CROMPTON'S "Pierides, or the Muses Mount," 1658

Away, thou gnawing worm, fond grief!

Away from me, away:
Thy absence is my sweet relief;

Then flee, without delay.
He that gives way to woe and sorrow,
May grieve to-day, and mourn to-morrow.

Go now into another zone,

Where mortal brains are light,
And press them down ;—I've need of none,

Since I have felt thy weight :
He that shall change his frown to laughter,
May laugh to-day, and sing hereafter :

I tried you both, and know you well,

But do not like you so : A light heart has no parallel ;

But oh! the pangs of woe! Yet woe the heart can never shoot, If thought be not the porter to 't.

Suppose you, then, that all is good,

And in that thought repose ;
This will allay that fiery blood,

Which in thy body flows :
And mark me now,—for this is chief,-
Nothing on earth requireth grief.

If accident should chance to fall,

It falls from heaven above ;
Then let no poverty or thrall,

Your soaring spirits move :
Nothing but sin can grief require ;
Then grieve for sin,-else grief, expire.

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