The ballad-writer is careful to record that among them there really were signs, "undoubted signs of heavy sorrow sure;" sighs, and tears, and the wringing of hands. But he is no less careful to secure his own market out of this grief, such as it is. Thus, like a practical man, and a huckster, he concludes with an urgent admonition :

"Purchase the same, I pray,

For his dear sake who made our Foes obey."

And truly he gives the buyers a good pennyworth, with precise details of black velvet, be-craped drums, the number of horses, the ditto of pillars to the canopy, the due succession of soldiery and State mourners, not forgetting Prince George of Denmark, "more fat than bard beseems," and the flambeaux. What else could be desired, by people who rejoice in tailoring, upholstery, and all the solemn dreariness of undertakers' bedizenment? While we hear, or read, about William of Orange being carried to King Henry the Seventh's chapel at Westminster, "where many of his Ancestors do lie," we need an effort to remember that his mother was Mary, daughter of Charles the First, and consequently sister of that James II. whom William did his utmost to dispossess of sovereignty and to keep in exile.

Thus passed he to his rest; not loved, not deeply mourned, yet respected for his many soldierly and statesmanlike qualities: the man whose life had been so full of anxieties, and who, not unreasonably, had believed himself to be almost the arbiter of destiny to the Continent of Europe. He had been hailed and vaunted as the "Protestant Deliverer." by those who mistook the mere negations, Protestantism and Dissent, for an equivalent to Religion. Not many years had he survived his wife Mary, whom he had loved, after his own cold fashion, although he had never deemed it necessary to be faithful to her. Gradually she had become more to him than an instrument, a stepping-stone in his ascent to power. Although a woman scarcely fitted to be loved with devoted affection, she had yet been cherished in his memory, perhaps not without some feeling of remorse. "When his re

mains were laid out, it was found that he wore next to his skin a small piece of black silk riband. The lords in waiting ordered it to be taken off. It contained a gold ring, and a lock of the hair of Mary." Cold-hearted formalists, these lords with the souls of lackeys, could they not have left it where it had lain? But it was ever thus:-"It is the curse of kings to be attended by slaves that take their humour for a warrant," and are as incapable of understanding the deeper sympathies of any hero, on whom they wait, as other valets are, proverbially.

The tune mentioned, "Aim not too high," refers to "An Excellent Song, wherein you will find Great consolation for a troubled mind." It dates back before 1620, and begins thus :

Ayme not too hie in things above thy reach;
Be not too foolish in thine owne conceit;
As thou hast wit and worldly wealth at will,
So give him thanks that shall encrease it still."

It is in Roxb. Coll., i. 106, and has been reprinted in Mr. Wm. Chappell's Roxb. Bds., i. 326. The tune is better known by the title "Fortune my Foe." It was largely employed for Hanging Verses or "Last Farewells" of notorious criminals at Tyburn. We find the words in Bagford Coll., ii. 122; Roxb. Coll., iii. 192, 193. The first verse and the music (both originally belonging to the close of the sixteenth century) are given in Chappell's Pop. Mus., 162. The air is solemn and beautiful. Full of pathos and dignity, such as triumphs over the vulgarizing associations which in later days had gathered around it. There were eleven four-line verses, belonging to the original "Lover's Complaint for the Loss of his Love," and the same number to "The Ladie's Comfortable and pleasant Answer." They began thus, respectively :

Fortune, my Foe, why dost thou frown on me?

And will thy favours never better be?
Wilt thou, I say, for ever breed my pain?
And wilt thou not restore my joys again?

Fortune hath wrought my grief and great annoy,
Fortune hath falsly stol'n my love away,
My love, my joy, whose sight did make me glad ;
Such great misfortunes never young man had.

Had fortune took my treasure and my store,
Fortune had never griev'd me half so sore;
But taking her whereon my heart did stay,
Fortune thereby did take my life away. &c.

The Answer begins :

Ah, silly soul! art thou so soon afraid?
Mourn not, my dear, nor be so soon dismay'd
Fortune cannot with all her power and skill,
Enforce my heart to think thee any ill.

[Bagford Collection, II. 94 verso.]

The Mournful Solemnity;

Or, The Royal

Funeral of William the Third:

Late King of England, Scotland, France, & Ireland, who was Inter'd amongst his Royal Ancesters, in the Chappel of king Henry the seventh, on the Twelfth of April, 1702.

YOME listen now you Loyal Subjects all,
To this sad mournful [? Funeral]

Of our Deceased Monarch, who of late
Was the Preserver both of Church and State.

Word cut off.

4

The time and manner of his Obsequie[s],
I have set down, and also where he lies
Inter'd; that so his Subjects far and near,
A most exact and just Account may hear.

April the Twelfth, near Ten a Clock at Night,
Two files of Granadeers appear'd in sight,
To clear the way, then follow'd all the rest,
Beating a March, with Drums in Mourning drest.

Eighty Six Mourning Coaches follow'd then,
With Noble Lords and Worthy Gentlemen,
Lighted by Flamboys as they past along,

In solemn manner through the weeping throng.

In Mourning all the Yeomen of the Guard,
With Halberds in their hands mov'd afterward,
In solemn manner as they led the way,
Before the Chariot where the KING he lay.

Eight Horses, cover'd all with mourning deep,
Drew this Rich Chariot, where as in a Sleep
King William lay, no Chariator was there,
Pages in Mourning led the same with care.

Only four Pillars bore a Canopy,

Over the Chariot, that all men might see,
The last of him who did the Nation save,
Mourning convey'd him to his silent Grave.

On the Rich Chariot head we may behold,
His Royal Arms Embroadered with Gold,
The Coffin cover'd with a Purple Pall,
Which o'er the Chariot sides full deep did fall.

Of this same Velvet was a Coushin made,

line pared away.

36

;1 On which a Rich & sumptuous Crown was [plac'd,] With Ermine lin'd and other beautys grac'd.

1 Perhaps the lost line was, "This Cushion was upon the Coffin laid:" "Where the KING rested, royally arrayed."

or,

Prince George of Denmark next the Chariot came,
Chief Mourner here, with Noble Men of Fame,
Lighted by Torches to illuminate,

This Royal Funeral in Mourning State.

After his Royal Highness, Guards of Horse
Approached, who did much lament the loss
Of their Great Master, passing to the Ground,
Both Drums and Trumpets made a Mournful sound.

40

44

In decent order through Hide-Park they came,
Whose Lamps appear'd like one intire flame,
From thence they to the Abby past along,

While Subjects did their Doors and Windows throng.

48

To see the last of their Renowned King,

Some sigh't, some wept, and some their hands did wring,
Undoubted signs of heavy sorrow sure,

But we the loss with patience must endure.

He that has many mighty Armys led,

With Marshall Drums and Flying Colours spread,

The Rights of wronged Kingdoms to Regain,

Was followed here with a sad Mourning Train.

56

And to the Chappel of King Henery,
Where many of his Ancisters do lie:
He is inter'd, and sleeps among the rest,
Who formerly the Royal Throne possest.

60

Now that a full and clear Account you have,
How from his Pallace to his Royal Grave
He was convey'd purchase the same I pray,
For his dear sake who made our Foes obey.

64

Printed for B. Deacon and C. Bates in Pye-Corner.1

[In White-letter, with a heavy black band between the two columns. Date, as above, April or May, 1702.]

1 On the other side is "Johnny Armstrong's last Goodnight," beginning, "Is there never a man in all Scotland:" printed by and for W. O[nlen], &c. (Bagford Coll., ii. 94; also another, i. 64. A copy occurs, very late, in the Roxb. Coll., iii. 513).