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RICHARD BRINSLEY SHERIDAN.

THOMAS CHATTERTON.

79

Sae haud your tongue an' say nae mair, RICHARD BRINSLEY SHERI tell ye 't was a rat."

IDAN. Me haud my tongue for you, Guidwife ! I'll be maister o' this house,

(1751 - 1816.) I saw it as plain as een could see,

HAD I A HEART FOR FALSEHOOD An' I tell ye 't was a mouse!”

FRAMED. “If you 're the maister o' the house,

Had I a heart for falsehood framed, It's I'm the mistress o''t;

I ne'er could injure you ; An' I ken best what's i' the house,

For though your tongue no promise Sae I tell ye 't was a rat."

claimed, “Weel, weel, Guidwife, gae mak the brose, To you no soul shall bear deceit,

Your charms would make me true: An' ca' it what ye please.”

No stranger offer wrong;
Sae up she gat an' made the brose,
While John sat toastin' his taes.

But friends in all the aged you 'll meet,

And lovers in the young. They suppit an' suppit an' suppit the brose,

For when they learn that you have blest

Another with your heart,
An' aye their lips played smack;
They suppit an' suppit an' suppit the They'll bid aspiring passion rest,

And act a brother's part.
brose
Till their lugs began to crack.

Then, lady, dread not here deceit,

Nor fear to suffer wrong; “Sic fules we were to fa' out, Guidwife, For friends in all the aged you 'll meet, About a mouse." -“A what!

And brothers in the young. It 's a lee ye tell, an' I say again

It wasna a mouse, 't was a rat.”
“Wad ye ca' me a leear to my very face?

THOMAS CHATTERTON.
My faith, but ye craw croose !--
I tell ye, Tib, I never will bear 't,

(1752- 1770.)
’T was a mouse." - "'T was a rat.
“'T was a mouse.

THE MINSTREL'S SONG IN ELLA. Wi' that she struck him ower the pow.

O, SING unto my roundelay! Ye dour auld doit, tak' that!

0, drop the briny tear with me! Gae to your bed, ye cankered sumph !

Dance no more at holiday, 'T was a rat. *6'T was a mouse!"

Like a running river be.
“'T was a rat!"

My love is dead,
Gone to his death-bed,

All under the willow-tree.
She sent the brose-cup at his heels
As he hirpled ben the house ;

Black his hair as the winter night, But he shoved out his head as he steekit White his neck as the summer snow, the door,

Ruddy his face as the morning light; An' cried, “'T was a mouse, 't was a Cold he lies in the grave below. mouse !"

My love is dead,

Gone to his death-bed,
Yet when the auld carle fell asleep,

All under the willow-tree.
She paid him back for that,
An' roared into his sleepin' lug,

Sweet his tongue as throstle's note, “'Twas a rat, 't was a rat, 't was a rat!" Quick in dance as thought was he;

Deft his tabor, cudgel stout; The deil be wi' me, if I think

0, he lies by the willow-tree ! It was a beast at all.

My love is dead,
Next mornin', when she sweept the floor, Gone to his death-bed,
She found wee Johnie's ball!

All under the willow-tree.

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Hark! the raven flaps his wing His truth unquestioned and his soul In the briered deli below;

serene: Hark! the death-owl loud doth sing Of no man's presence Isaac felt afraid : To the nightmares as they go. At no man's question Isaac looked dis. My love is dead,

mayed : Gone to his death-bed,

Shame knew him not, he dreaded no All under the willow-tree,

disgrace;

Truth, simple truth, was written in his See! the white moon shines on high ; face;

Whiter is my true-love's shroud, Yet while the serious thought his soul Whiter than the morning sky,

approved, Whiter than the evening cloud. Cheerful he seemed, and gentleness he My love is dead,

loved ; Gone to his death-bed,

To bliss domestic he his heart resigned, All under the willow-tree.

And with the firmest, had the fondet

mind. Here, upon my true-love's grave, Were others joyful, he looked smiling on,

Shall the garish flowers be laid, And gave allowance where he needed none; Nor one holy saint to save

Good he refused with future ill to buy, All the sorrows of a maid.

Nor knew a joy that caused reflection's My love is dead,

sigh. Gone to his death-bed,

A friend to virtue, his unclouded breast All under the willow-tree. No envy stung, no jealousy distressed

(Bane of the poor! it wounds their weaker With my hands I'll bind the briers

mind Round his holy corse to gre; To miss one favor which their neighbors Elfin-fairy, light your fires,

find); Here my body still shall be. Yet far was he from stoic pride removed ; My love is dead,

He felt humanely, and he warmly loved. Gone to his death-bed,

I marked his action when his infant died, All under the willow-tree. And his old neighbor for offence was tried;

The still tears, stealing down that furCome with acorn cup and thorn,

rowed cheek, Drain my heart's blood all away; Spoke pity plainer than the tongue can Life and all its good I scorn,

speak. Dance by night, or feast by day. If pride were his, 't was not their vulgar My love is dead,

pride Gone to his death-bed,

Who, in their base contempt, the great All under the willow-tree.

deride;

Nor pride in learning, though my clerk Water-witches, crowned with reytes,

agreed, Bear me to your deadly tide.

If fate should call him, Ashford might I die- I come — my true-love waits.

succeed; Thus the damsel spake, and died.

Nor pride in rustic skill, although we knew
None his superior, and his equals few:
But if that spirit in his soul had place,

It was the jealous pride that shuns dis-
GEORGE CRABBE.

grace;

A pride in honest fame, by virtue gained, (1754 – 1832.)

In sturdy boys to virtuous labors trained ;

Pride in the power that guards his counISAAC ASHFORD,

try's coast,

And all that Englishmen enjoy and boast; Next to these ladies, but in naught Pride in a life that slander's tongue defied, allied,

In fact, a noble passion, misnamed pride. A noble peasant, Isaac Ashford, died. He had no party's rage, no sectary's Noble he was, contemning all things mean, whim ;

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