66 Fight on, my men, Sir Andrew fayes,
A little Ime hurt, but yett not flaine;
Ile but lye downe and bleede a while,

And then lle rife and fight againe.
"Fight on, my men, Sir Andrew fayes,
And never flinche before the foe;
And ftand faft by St. Andrewes croffe
Untill you heare my whistle blowe."

They never heard his whistle blow,

125

Which made their hearts waxe fore adread: 130 Then Horfeley fayd, Aboard, my lord,

For well I wott Sir Andrew's dead. They boarded then his noble fhipp,

They boarded it with might and maine;

Eighteen fcore Scots alive they found,

135

The reft were either maimed or flaine.

Lord Howard tooke a sword in hand,

And off he fn ote Sir Andrewes head; "I must have left England many a daye, If thou wert alive as thou art dead."

140

He caufed his body to be caft

Over the hatch bord into the fea,

And about his middle three hundred crownes: "Wherever thou land this will bury thee."

Thus

Thus from the warres lord Howard came,
And backe he fayled ore the maine,
With mickle joy and triumphing

Into Thames mouth he came againe.
Lord Howard then a letter wrote,

And fealed it with feale and ring;

145

150

"Such a noble prize have I brought to your grace,

As never did fubject to a king,

"Sir Andrewes fhipp I bring with mee;

A braver fhipp was never none:

Nowe hath your grace two shipps of warr,

155

Before in England was but one."

King Henryes grace with royall cheere
Welcomed the noble Howard home,

And where, faid he, is this rover stout,
That I myselfe may give the doome?

160

"The rover, he is fafe, my leige, Full many a fadom in the fea;

If he were alive as he is dead,

I must have left England many a day:

And your grace may thank four men i'the fhip 165 For the victory wee have wonne,

These are William Horfcley, Henry Hudt,

And Peter Simon, and his fonne."

Nowe, Peter Simon, thou art old,

I will maintaine thee and thy sonne:

And the men shall have five hundred markes

For the good service they have done.

Then in came the queene with ladyes fair
To fee Sir Andrewe Barton knight:

They weend that hee were brought on fhore,
And thought to have seen a gallant fight.

But when they fee his deadlye face,

And eyes foe hollow in his head,

180

185

I wold give, quoth the king, a thousand markes,
This man were alive as hee is dead :

Yett for the man full part hee playd,

Which fought foe well with heart and hand, 190

His men fhall have twelvepence a day,

Till they come to my brother kings high land.

Ver. 175, 6... Erle of Nottingham, And foe was never, &c. MS.

XIII. LADY

XIII.

LADY ANNE BOTHWELL'S LAMENT.

A SCOTTISH SONG.

The fubject of this pathetic Ballad the Editor once thought might pofibly relate to the Earl of Bothwell, and his defertion 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 sage, who was upwards of 60 at the time of that marriage, renders it unlikely that he should be the objet of fo warm a paffion as this elegy fuppofes. He has been fince informed, that it entirely refers to a private ftory: A young lady of the name of BOTHWELL, or rather BOSWELL, having been, together with her child, deferted by her husband or lover, compofed thefe affecting lines herself; which here are given from a copy in the Eitor's folio MS. corrected by another in Allan Ramfay's Mifcellany.

B

ALOW, my babe, lye still and fleipe!

It grieves me fair to see thee weipe:

If thouft be filent, Ife be glad,
Thy maining maks my heart ful fad.
Balow, my boy, thy mothers joy,
Thy father breides me great annoy.

Balow, my babe, ly stil and fleipe,
It grieves me fair to see thee weepe.

5

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

10

Lye ftill, my darling, fleipe a while,
And when thou wakeft, fweitly fmile:
But finile not, as thy father did,
To cozen maids: nay God forbid!
Bot yett I feire, thou wilt gae neire
Thy fatheris hart, and face to beire.

I cannae chufe, but ever will
Be luving to thy father still:

20

Balow, &c.

Whair-eir he gae, whair-eir he ryde,
My luve with him doth still abyde:

25

In weil or wae, whair-eir he gae,
Mine hart can neire depart him frae.

Balow, &c.

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

Bot