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Hast thou not heard, nowe, Henrye Hunt, As thou hast sayled by daye and by night, Of a Scottish rover on the seas;

Men call him Sir Andrew Barton, knight?
Then ever he sighed, and sayd alas! 85
With a grieved mind, and well away!
But over-well I knowe that wight,
I was his prisoner yesterday.

As I was sayling uppon the sea,
A Burdeaux voyage for to fare;
To his hach-borde he clasped me,
And robd me of all my merchant ware:
And mickle debts, God wot, I owe,

And every man will have his owne,
And I am nowe to London bounde,

Of our gracious king to beg a boone.

That shall not need, Lord Howard sais;
Lett me but once that robber see,
For every penny tane thee froe

It shall be doubled shillings three. Nowe Gode forefend, the merchant said, That you shold seek soe far amisse! God keepe you out of that traitors hands! Full litle ye wott what a man hee is.

This is cold comfort, sais my lord,

To wellcome a stranger thus to the sea: Yet Ile bring him and his shipp to shore,

Or to Scottland hee shall carrye mee. 120

Then a noble gunner you must have,

And he must aim well with his ee, And sinke his pinnace into the sea,

Or else hee never orecome will bee:

And if you chance his shipp to borde, This counsel I must give withall, Let no man to his topcastle goe

To strive to let his beams downe fall.

90

And seven pieces of ordinance,

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Hee is brasse within, and steele without, 105 With beames on his topcastle stronge;

And eighteen pieces of ordinance

He carries on each side along:
And he hath a pinnace deerlye dight,

St. Andrewes crosse that is his guide; 110 His pinnace beareth ninescore men,

And fifteen canons on each side.

Were ye twentye shippes, and he but one;
I sweare by kirke, and bower, and hall;
He wold overcome them everye one,
115
If once his beames they doe downe fall.*

V. 91, The MS. has here Arch-borde, but in Part II. v. 5, Hachebord.

It should seem from hence, that before our marine artillery was brought to its present perfection, some naval commanders had recourse to instruments or machines, similar in use, though perhaps unlike in construction, to the heavy Dolphins made of lead or iron used by the ancient Greeks; which they suspended from beams or yards fastened to the mast, and which they precipitately let fall on the enemies' ships, in order to sink them, by beating

I pray your honour lend to mee, On each side of my shipp along,

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130

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Now by the roode, three yeares and more
I have beene admirall over the sea;
And never an English nor Portingall
Without my leave can passe this way.
Then called he forth his stout pinnàce ;
"Fetch backe yond pedlars nowe to mee:
I sweare by the masse, yon English churles
Shall all hang att my maine-mast tree."

With that the pinnace itt shott off,

Full well Lord Howard might it ken;
For itt stroke down my lord's fore mast,
And killed fourteen of his men.
Come hither, Simon, sayes my lord,

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Looke that thy word be true, thou said;
For at my maine-mast thou shall hang,
If thou misse thy marke one shilling bread.

Simon was old, but his heart itt was bold,
His ordinance he laid right lowe;
He put in chaine full nine yardes long,
With other great shott lesse, and moe;
And he lette goe his great gunnes shott:
Soe well he settled itt with his ee,
The first sight that Sir Andrew sawe,

He see his pinnace sunke in the sea.

And when he saw his pinnace sunke,

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Lord, how his heart with rage did swell! "Nowe cutt my ropes, itt is time to be gon;

Ile fetch yond pedlars backe mysell." When my Lord sawe Sir Andrewe loose, 45 Within his heart hee was full faine: "Nowe spread your ancyents, strike up drummes,

Sound all your trumpetts out amaine."

Fight on, my men, Sir Andrewe sais,
Weale howsoever this geere will sway; 50

Itt is my lord admirall of England,

Is come to seeke mee on the sea.
Simon had a sonne, who shott right well,
That did Sir Andrewe mickle scare;

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Against the Portingalls hee it ware; And when he had on this armour of proofe, He was a gallant sight to see:

Ah! nere didst thou meet with living wight, My deere brothèr, could cope with thee." Come hither, Horseley, sayes my lord,

And looke your shaft that itt goe right, Shoot a good shoote in time of need,

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And for it thou shalt be made a knight.
Ile shoot my best, quoth Horseley then,
Your honour shall see, with might and
maine;

But if I were hanged at your maine-mast,
I have now left but arrowes twaine.

110

Ver. 67, 84, pounds, MS. V. 75, bearings, sc. that carries well, &c. But see Gloss.

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XIII.

Lady Anne Bothwell's Lament.

A SCOTTISH SONG.

THE subject of this pathetic ballad the Editor once thought might possibly relate to the Earl of Bothwell, and his desertion of his wife Lady Jean Gordon, to make room for his marriage with the Queen of Scots. But this opinion he now believes to be groundless; indeed Earl Bothwell's age, who was upwards of sixty at the time of that marriage, renders it unlikely that he should be the object of so warm a passion as this elegy supposes. He has been since informed, that it entirely refers to a private story. A young lady of the name of Bothwell, or rather Boswell, having been, together with her child, deserted by her husband or lover, composed these affecting lines herself; which here are given from a copy in the Editor's folio MS., corrected by another in Allan Ramsay's Miscellany.

BALOW, my babe, lye still and sleipe!
It grieves me sair to see thee weipe:
If thoust be silent, Ise be glad,
Thy maining maks my heart ful sad.
Balow, my boy, thy mothers joy,
Thy father breides me great annoy."

Balow, my babe, ly stil and sleipe,
It grieves me sair to see thee weepe.

Whan he began to court my luve,
And with his sugred wordes* to muve, 10
His faynings fals, and flattering cheire
To me that time did not appeire:
But now I see, most cruell hee
Cares neither for my babe nor mee.
Balow, &c. 15

When sugar was first imported into Europe, it was a very great dainty; and therefore the epithet sugred is used by all our old writers metaphorically to express extreme and delicate sweetness. (See above, No. XI. v. 10.) Sugar at present is cheap and common; and therefore suggests now a coarse and vulgar idea.

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XIV.

The Murder of the King of Scots.

To bee a prince unto a peere:

But you have heard, and soe have I too,
A man may well buy gold too deare.

THE catastrophe of Henry Stewart, Lord | To be a king is a pleasant thing,
Darnley, the unfortunate husband of Mary
Queen of Scots, is the subject of this ballad.
It is here related in that partial imperfect
manner, in which such an event would natu-
rally strike the subjects of another kingdom;
of which he was a native. Henry appears
to have been a vain, capricious, worthless
young man, of weak understanding, and dis-
solute morals. But the beauty of his person,
and the inexperience of his youth, would dis-
pose mankind to treat him with an indul-
gence, which the cruelty of his murder would
afterwards convert into the most tender pity
and regret and then imagination would not
fail to adorn his memory with all those vir-
tucs he ought to have possessed. This will
account for the extravagant eulogium be-
stowed upon him in the first stanza, &c.

There was an Italyan in that place,
Was as well beloved as ever was hee,
Lord David was his name,
Chamberlaine to the queene was hee.

Henry Lord Darnley was eldest son of the Earl of Lennox, by the Lady Margaret Douglas, niece of Henry VIII., and daughter of Margaret Queen of Scotland by the Earl of Angus, whom that princess married after the death of James IV.-Darnley, who had been born and educated in England, was but in his 21st year when he was murdered, Feb. 9, 1567-8. This crime was perpetrated by the Earl of Bothwell, not out of respect to the memory of Riccio, but in order to pave the way for his own marriage with the queen.

This ballad (printed, with a few corrections, from the Editor's folio MS.) seems to have been written soon after Mary's escape into England in 1568, see v. 65.-It will be remembered; at v. 5, that this princess was Queen Dowager of France, having been first married to Francis II., who died Dec. 4, 1560.

WOE worth, woe worth thee, false Scotlande!
For thou hast ever wrought by sleight;
The worthyest prince that ever was borne,
You hanged under a cloud by night.

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If the king had risen forth of his place,
He wold have sate him downe in the cheare,
And tho itt beseemed him not so well,
Altho the kinge had beene present there.

Some lords in Scotlande waxed wrothe,
And quarrelled with him for the nonce;
I shall you tell how it befell,

Twelve daggers were in him att once.

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When the queene saw her chamberlaine was slaine,

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For him her faire cheeks shee did weete,
And made a vowe for a yeare and a day
The king and shee wold not come in one

sheete.

Then some of the lords they waxed wrothe,

And made their vow all vehementlye; 30
For the death of the queenes chamberlaine,
The king himselfe, how he shall dye.

With gun-powder they strewed his roome,
And layd greene rushes in his way:
For the traitors thought that very night
This worthye king for to betray.

To bedd the king he made him bowne;

To take his rest was his desire;
He was noe sooner cast on sleepe,

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But his chamber was on a blasing fire. 40

Up he lope, and the window brake,

And hee had thirtye foote to fall;
Lord Bodwell kept a privy watch,
Underneath his castle wall.

Ver. 15, sic. MS.

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