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,
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, etc.

Lye still, ray darling, sleipe a while,
And when thou wakest, sweitly smile :
But smile 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.
Balow, etc.

*When sugar was first imported into Europe, it was a very great dairty; 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.

I cannae chuse, but ever will
Be luving to thy father still:
Whair-eir he gae, whair-eir he ryde,
My luve with him doth still abyde :
In weil or wae, whair-eir he gae,
Mine hart can neire depart him frae.

Balow, etc.

But doe not, doe not, prettie mine,
To faynings fals thine hart incline;
Be loyal to thy luver trew,
And nevir change hir for a new :
If gude or faire, of hir have care,
For womens banning's wonderous sair.
Balow, etc.

Bairne, sin thy cruel father is gane,
Thy winsome smiles maun eise my paine;
My babe and I'll together live,
He'll comfort me when cares doe grieve:
My babe and I right saft will ly,
And quite forgeit man's cruelty.

Balow, etc.

Fareweil, fareweil, thou falsest youth,
That evir kist a womans mouth!
I wish all maides be warnd by mee
Nevir to trust mans curtesy ;
For if we doe bot chance to bow,
They'le use us then they care not how.
Balow, my babe, ly stil, and sleipe.
It grives me sair to see thee weipe.

XIV. THE MURDER OF THE KING OF SCOTS.*

THE catastrophe of Henry Stewart, Lord 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 naturally strike the subjects of another kingdom, of which he was a native.

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 twenty-first 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 Rizzio, 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.

Woe worth, woe worth thee, false Scot

lànde !

For thou hast ever wrought by sleight; The worthyest prince that ever was borne, You hanged under a cloud by night.

The queene of France a letter wrote,

And sealed itt with harte and ringe; And bade him come Scotland within,

And shee wold marry and crowne him kinge.

To be a king is a pleasant thing,

To bee a prince unto a peere :
But you have heard, and soe have I too,
A man may well buy gold too deare.

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.

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 wroth,
And quarrelled with him for the nonce;

I shall you tell how it befell,

Twelve daggers were in him att once.

When the queene saw her chamberlaine was slaine,

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; 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 caste on sleepe,

But his chamber was on a blasing fire.

Up he lope, and the window brake,
And hee had thirtye foote to fall;

* Given in folio as "Earle Bodwell

XV.-A SONNET BY QUEEN ELIZABETH.

THE following lines, if they display no rich vein of poetry, are yet so strongly characteristic of their great and spirited authoress, that the insertion of them will be pardoned. They are preserved in Puttenham's Arte of English Poesie, a book in which are many sly addresses to the queen's foible of shining as a poetess.