shady groves they hover,
And with leaves and flowers do cover
The friendless bodies of unburied men.
Call unto his funeral dole
The ant, the field-mouse, and the mole,
To rear him hillocks that shall keep him warm,
And (when gay tombs are robb'd) sustain no harm;
But keep the wolf far thence, that's foe to men,
For with his nails he'll dig them up again.

THE SHROUDING

HARK! now everything is still,
The screech-owl and the whistler shrill,
Call upon our dame aloud,
And bid her quickly don her shroud!

Much you had of land and rent;
Your length in clay's now competent:
A long war disturb'd your mind;
Here your perfect peace is sign'd.

Of what is't fools make such vain keeping?
Sin their conception, their birth weeping,
Their life a general mist of error,
Their death a hideous storm of terror.
Strew your hair with powders sweet,
Don clean linen, bathe your feet,
And—the foul fiend more to check—
A crucifix let bless your neck;
'Tis now full tide 'tween night and day;
End your groan and come away.

THOMAS DEKKER

CONTENT

ART thou poor, yet hast thou golden slumbers?
O sweet content!
Art thou rich, yet is thy mind perplex'd?
O punishment!
Dost thou laugh to see how fools are vex'd
To add to golden numbers, golden numbers?
O sweet content! O sweet, O sweet content!
Work apace, apace, apace, apace;
Honest labour bears a lovely face;
Then hey nonny nonny, hey nonny nonny!

Canst drink the waters of the crisped spring?
O sweet content!
Swimm'st thou in wealth, yet sink'st in thine own tears?
O punishment!
Then he that patiently want's burden bears
No burden bears, but is a king, a king!
O sweet content! O sweet, O sweet content!
Work apace, apace, apace, apace;
Honest labour bears a lovely face;
Then hey nonny nonny, hey nonny nonny!

TROLL THE BOWL

COLD's the wind, and wet's the rain,
Saint Hugh be our good speed!
Ill is the weather that bringeth no gain,
Nor helps good hearts in need.

Troll the bowl, the jolly nut-brown bowl,
And here, kind mate, to thee!
Let's sing a dirge for Saint Hugh's soul,
And down it merrily.

Down-a-down, hey, down-a-down,
Hey derry derry down-a-down.
Ho! well done, to let me come,
Ring compass, gentle joy!

Troll the bowl, the nut-brown bowl,
And here, kind mate, to thee!
Let's sing a dirge for Saint Hugh's soul,
And down it merrily.

Cold's the wind, and wet's the rain,
Saint Hugh be our good speed!
Ill is the weather that bringeth no gain,
Nor helps good hearts in need.

ANONYMOUS

SIR PATRICK SPENS

THE king sits in Dunfermline toun,
Drinking the blude-red wine;
Oh whare will I get a gude sailor,
To sail this ship o' mine?'

Then up and spake an eldern knight
Sat at the king's right knee;
'Sir Patrick Spens is the best sailor
That ever sail'd the sea.'

The king has written a braid letter,
And seal'd it wi' his hand,
And sent it to Sir Patrick Spens
Was walking on the strand.

'To Noroway, to Noroway,
To Noroway o'er the faem;
The king's daughter to Noroway,
'Tis thou maun tak' her hame.'

The first line that Sir Patrick read,
A loud laugh laughed he;
The neist line that Sir Patrick read,
The tear blinded his ee.

'O wha is this has done this deed,
And tauld the king o' me,
To send us out at this time o' the year,
To sail upon the sea?'

'Be't wind or weet, be't hail or sleet,
Our ship maun sail the faem;
The king's daughter to Noroway,
'Tis we maun tak' her hame.'

They hoisted their sails on Monenday morn,
Wi' a' the speed they may;
And they hae landed in Noroway
Upon a Wodensday.

They hadna been a week, a week,
In Noroway but twae,
When that the lords o' Noroway
Began aloud to say—

'Ye Scotisman spend a' our king's gowd,
And a' our queenis fee.'
'Ye lee, ye lee, ye leears loud,
Sae loud 's I hear ye lee!'

'For I brought as much o' the white monie
As gane my men and me,
And a half-fou o' the gude red gowd,
Out owre the sea with me.

'Mak' ready, mak' ready, my merry men a',
Our gude ship sails the morn.'
'O say na sae, my master dear,
I fear a deadlie storm.

'I saw the new moon late yestreen,
Wi' the auld moon in her arm;
And if we gang to sea, master,
I fear we'll come to harm!'

They hadna sail'd a league, a league,
A league but barely three,
When the lift grew dark, and the wind blew loud
And gurly grew the sea.

The ankers brak, and the tap-masts lap,
It was sic a deadlie storm;
And the waves cam' owre the broken ship,
Till a' her sides were torn.

'O whare will I get a gude sailor
Will tak' the helm in hand,
Till I get up to the tall tap-mast,
To see if I can spy land.'

'O here am I, a sailor gude,
To tak' the helm in hand,
Till ye get up to the tall tap-mast,
But I fear ye'll ne'er spy land.'

He hadna gane a step, a step,
A step but barely ane,
When a bout flew out o' the gude ship's side,
And the saut sea it cam in.

'Gae, fetch a web o' the silken claith,
Anither o' the twine,
And wap them into our gude ship's side,
And letna the sea come in.'

They fetch'd a wab o' the silken claith,
Anither o' the twine,
And they wapp'd them into the gude ship's side,
But aye the sea cam' in.

O laith, laith were our Scots lords' sons
To weet their coal-black shoon,
But lang ere a' the play was play'd,
They wat their hats abune.

And mony was the feather-bed
That fluttered on the faem,
And mony was the gude lord's son
That never mair cam' hame.

O lang, lang may the ladies sit,
Wi' their fans into their hand,
Before they see Sir Patrick Spens
Come sailing to the strand.

And lang, lang may the maidens sit,
Wi' the gowd kaims in their hair,
A' waiting for their ain dear loves,
For them they'll see nae mair.

Half owre, half owre to Aberdour
'Tis fifty fathom deep,
And there lies gude Sir Patrick Spens
Wi' the Scots lords at his feet.

THE BEGGAR'S DAUGHTER OF BEDNALL-GREEN

PART I

IT was a blind beggar, had long lost his sight,
He had a fair daughter of beauty most bright;
And many a gallant brave suitor had she,
For none was so comely as pretty Bessee.

And though she was of favour most faire,
Yet seeing she was but a poor beggar's heyre,
Of ancyent housekeepers despised was she,
Whose sons came as