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tractations, and endeavour to counteract the evil which, though erringly, with no evil intention, I had caused.

Wherefore then, it may be asked, have I included Wat Tyler in this authentic collection of my poetical works? For these reasons,- that it may not be supposed I think it any reproach to have written it, or that I am more ashamed of having been a republican, than of having been a boy. Quicunque ista lecturi sunt, non me imitentur errantem, sed in melius proficientem. Inveniet enim fortasse, quomodo scribendo profecerim, quisquis opuscula mea, ordine quo scripta sunt, legerit.*

I have endeavoured to correct in my other juvenile pieces such faults as were corrigible. But Wat Tyler appears just as it was written, in the course of three mornings, in 1794; the stolen copy, I which was committed to the press twenty-three years afterwards, not having undergone the slightest correction of any kind.

* St. Augustine.

WAT TYLER.

ACT I.

SCENE. A Blacksmith's shop; Wat Tyler at work within; a May-pole before the door.

ALICE, PIERS, &c.

SONG.

CHEERFUL on this holiday,
Welcome we the merry May.

On every sunny hillock spread,
The pale primrose lifts her head;
Rich with sweets, the western gale
Sweeps along the cowslip'd dale;
Every bank, with violets gay,
Smiles to welcome in the May.

The linnet from the budding grove,
Chirps her vernal song of love.
The copse resounds the throstle's notes,
On each wild gale sweet music floats;
And melody from every spray,
Welcomes in the merry May.

Cheerful on this holiday,
Welcome we the merry May.

[Dance.

[During the dance, Tyler lays down his hammer,

and sits mournfully down before the door. Hob Carter. Why so sad, neighbour?- do not these gay sports,

This revelry of youth, recall the days
When we too mingled in the revelry,
And lightly tripping in the morris dance,
Welcomed the merry month?

Ay, we were young,

Tyler.
No cares had quell'd the heyday of the blood:

We sported deftly in the April morning,

Normark'd the black clouds gathering o'er our noon, Nor fear'd the storm of night.

Hob.

Beshrew me, Tyler,

But my heart joys to see the imps so cheerful! Young, hale, and happy, why should they destroy

These blessings by reflection

Tyler.

Look ye, neighbour

Since we were boys together

You have known me long.

Hob.

And play'd at barley-brake, and danced the morris.

Some five-and-twenty years!

Tyler.

And hale, and happy?

Hob. Cheerful as the best.

Was not I

young,

Tyler. Have not I been astaid, hard-working man?

Up with the lark at labour; sober, honest,

Of an unblemish'd character?

Hob.

Who doubts it?

There's never a man in Essex bears a better.

Tyler. And shall not these, though young, and

hale, and happy,

Look on with sorrow to the future hour?

Shall not reflection poison all their pleasures?
When I the honest, staid, hard-working Tyler,
Toil through the long course of the summer's day,
Still toiling, yet still poor! when with hard labour
Scarce can I furnish out my daily food,

And age comes on to steal away my strength,
And leave me poor and wretched! Why should this be?
My youth was regular-my labour constant-
I married an industrious, virtuous woman;
Nor while I toil'd and sweated at the anvil,
Sat she neglectful of her spinning-wheel.
Hob! I have only six groats in the world,
And they must soon by law be taken from me.
Hob. Curse on these taxes--one succeeds another-
Our ministers, panders of a king's will,

Drain all our wealth away, waste it in revels,
And lure, or force away our boys, who should be
The props of our old age, to fill their armies,
And feed the crows of France.
Year follows year,

And still we madly prosecute the war;

Draining our wealth, distressing our poor peasants,
Slaughtering our youths—and all to crown our chiefs
With glory!-I detest the hell-sprung name.
Tyler. What matters me who wears the crown of
France ?

Whether a Richard or a Charles possess it?

They reap the glory-they enjoy the spoil-
We pay-
-we bleed! The sun would shine as cheerly,
The rains of heaven as seasonably fall,

Though neither of these royal pests existed.

Hob. Nay, as for that we poor men should fare better;

No legal robbers then should force away
The hard-earn'd wages of our honest toil.
The Parliament for ever cries more money,
The service of the state demands more money ;
Just heaven! of what service is the state?

Tyler. Oh, 't is of vast importance! who should pay for

The luxuries and riots of the court?

Who should support the flaunting courtier's pride, Pay for their midnight revels, their rich garments, Did not the state enforce?-Think ye, my friend, That I, a humble blacksmith, here at Deptford, Would part with these six groats-earn'd by hard toil, All that I have! to massacre the Frenchmen, Murder as enemies men I never saw !

Did not the state compel me? (Tax-gatherers pass by.)

There they go,

Privileged ruffians! [Piers & Alice advance to him.
Alice. Did we not dance it well to-day, my father?
You know I always loved these village sports,
Even from my infancy, and yet methinks

I never tripp'd along the mead so gaily.

You know they chose me queen, and your friend Piers
Wreathed me this cowslip garland for my head-
Is it not simple?—You are sad my father!
You should have rested from your work to-day,
And given a few hours up to merriment.
But you are so serious!

Serious, my good girl!

when I look at thee

thou art too fair a flower

To bear the wintry wind of poverty.