John Grubb, the facetious writer of the foregoing song, makes a distinguished figure among the Oxford wits so humourously enumerated in the following distich :

'Alma novem genuit célebres Rhedycina poetas

Bubb, Stubb, Grubb, Crabb, Trapp, Young, Carey, Tickel, Evans.'

These were Bubb Dodington (Lord Melcombe), Dr. Stubbes, our poet Grubb, Mr. Crabb, Dr. Trapp, the poetry-professor, Dr. Edw. Young, the author of Night-Thoughts, Walter Carey, Thomas Tickel, Esq.; and Dr. Evans, the epigrammatist.

As for our poet Grubb, all that we can learn further of him, is contained in a few extracts from the University Register, and from his epitaph. It appears from the former that he was matriculated in 1667, being the son of John Grubb, ‘De Acton Burnel in comitatu Salop. pauperis.' He took his degree of Bachelor of Arts, June 28, 1671: and became Master of Arts, June 28, 1675. He was appointed Head Master of the Grammar School at Christ Church and afterwards chosen into the same employment at Gloucester, where he died in 1697, as appears from his monument in the church of St. Mary de Crypt in Gloucester, which is inscribed with the following Epitaph:

XVI.

MARGARET'S GHOST.

This ballad, which appeared in some of the public newspapers in or before the year 1724, came from the pen of David Mallet, Esq; who in the edition of his poems, 3 vols. 1750, informs us that the plan was suggested by the four verses quoted above in pag. 99, which he supposed to be the beginning of some ballad now lost.

'These lines,' says he, 'naked of ornament and simple as they are, struck my fancy; and bringing fresh into my mind an unhappy adventure much talked of formerly, gave birth to the following poem, which was written many years ago.'

The two introductory lines (and one or two others elsewhere) had originally more of the ballad simplicity, viz.

When all was wrapt in dark midnight,

And all were fast asleep, &c.1

"TWAS at the silent solemn hour,
When night and morning meet;
In glided Margaret's grimly ghost,
And stood at William's feet.

Her face was like an April morn,
Clad in a wintry cloud:

And clay-cold was her lily hand,
That held her sable shrowd.

So shall the fairest face appear,

When youth and years are flown:

Such is the robe that kings must wear,
When death has reft their crown.

Her bloom was like the springing flower,

That sips the silver dew;

The rose was budded in her cheek,

Just opening to the view.

But love had, like the canker worm,

Consum'd her early prime:

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'This ballad was first published in Aaron Hill's 'Plain Dealer,' July 24, 1724.-ED.

The rose grew pale, and left her cheek;
She dy'd before her time.

'Awake!' she cry'd, 'thy true love calls,
Come from her midnight grave;
Now let thy pity hear the maid,
Thy love refus'd to save.

This is the dark and dreary hour,
When injur'd ghosts complain;
Now yawning graves give up their dead,
To haunt the faithless swain.

Bethink thee, William, of thy fault,
Thy pledge, and broken oath:
And give me back my maiden vow,

And give me back my troth.

Why did you promise love to me,

And not that promise keep?

Why did you swear mine eyes were bright,
Yet leave those eyes to weep?

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How could you say my face was fair,

And yet that face forsake?

my virgin heart,

How could you win my

Yet leave that heart to break?

Why did you say my lip was sweet,
And made the scarlet pale?
And why did I, young witless maid,
Believe the flattering tale?

That face, alas! no more is fair;
These lips no longer red:

Dark are my eyes, now clos'd in death,
And every charm is fled.

The hungry worm my sister is;

This winding-sheet I wear:

And cold and weary lasts our night,

Till that last morn appear.

But hark! the cock has warn'd me hence!
A long and last adieu!

Come see, false man, how low she lies,
Who dy'd for love of you.'

The lark sang loud; the morning smil❜d,
With beams of rosy red:

Pale William shook in ev'ry limb,

And raving left his bed.

He hyed him to the fatal place,
Where Margaret's body lay;

And stretch'd him on the grass-green turf,
That wrapt her breathless clay.

And thrice he call'd on Margaret's name,
And thrice he wept full sore:
Then laid his cheek to her cold grave,

And word spake never more.

*** In a late publication, intitled, 'The Friends,' &c. Lond. 1773, 2 vols. 12mo (in the first volume), is inserted a copy of the foregoing ballad, with very great variations, which the editor of that work contends was the original ; and that Mallet adopted it for his own and altered it as here given. But the superior beauty and simplicity of the present copy, gives it so much more the air of an original, that it will rather be believed that some transcriber altered it from Mallet's, and adapted the lines to his own taste; than which notl::ng is more common in popular songs and ballads.

XVII.

LUCY AND COLIN.

was written by Thomas Tickel, Esq; the celebrated friend of Mr. Addison, and editor of his works. He was son of a clergyman in the north of England, had his education at Queen's College, Oxon, was under secretary to Mr. Addison and Mr. Craggs, when successively secretaries of state; and was lastly (in June, 1724) appointed secretary to the Lords Justices in Ireland, which place he held till his death in 1740. He acquired Mr. Addison's patronage by a poem in praise of the opera of Rosamond, written while he was at the University.

It is a tradition in Ireland, that this song was written at Castletown, in the county of Kildare, at the request of the then Mrs. Conolly-probably on some event recent in that neighbourhood.1

OF Leinster, fam'd for maidens fair,
Bright Lucy was the grace;
Nor ere did Liffy's limpid stream
Reflect so fair a face.

Till luckless love, and pining care
Impair'd her rosy hue,

Her coral lip, and damask cheek,
And eyes of glossy blue.

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Oh! have you seen a lily pale,
When beating rains descend?

So droop'd the slow-consuming maid;
Her life now near its end..

By Lucy warn'd, of flattering swains,
Take heed, ye easy fair:

Of vengeance due to broken vows,
Ye perjured swains, beware.

Three times, all in the dead of night,
A bell was heard to ring;

1 Gray calls this the 'prettiest ballad' in the world.—ED.

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