Tickell.

Confufion, fhame, remorfe, defpair

At once his bofom fwell:

The damps of death bedew'd his brow,
He fhook, he groan'd, he fell.

From the vain bride (ah bride no more!)

The varying crimson fled,

When, ftretch'd before her rival's corfe,
She faw her husband dead.

Then to his Lucy's new-made grave,
Convey'd by trembling fwains,
One mould with her, beneath one fod
For ever now remains.

Oft at their grave the conftant hind
And plighted maid are feen;
With garlands gay, and true-love knots
They deck the facred green.

But, fwain forfworn, whoe'er thou art,
This hallow'd fpot forbear;
Remember Colin's dreadful fate,
And fear to meet him there.

Mallet.

Mallet.

S. B. I. S. 78.

Sie erschien schon um das Jahr 1724 zuerst, und hernach in Nialler's Gedichten, mit folgender Aenderung der beiden Anfangszeilen: 'Twas at the filent folemn hour

When night and morning meet;

wodurch freilich der Reim der zweiten und vierten Zeile bez richtigt, aber, wie Dr. Percy bemerkt, die Einfachheit des Balladentons vermindert wird. Auch stimmt die ältere Leseart mehr mit den Versen in Fletcher's Knight of the burning pestle überein, wodurch dieses schöne Stück eis gentlich veranlasst wurde. S. Reliques, Vol. III. p. 119; und eben daselbst S. 127 ff. ein sehr schönes Gegenstück, die alte schottische Ballade, Sweet William's Ghoft. Beide stehen auch in der Sammlung des Herrn Urfinus, S. 94 und 102, diese mit der Herderischen Ueberseßung, (f. Volkslieder, B. II. S. 183;) und jene, hier abgedruckte, mit der meinigen, die ehedem im Göttingischen Musens almanach v. I. 1772 ftand.

MARGARET's GHOST.

When all was wrapt in dark midnight
And all were fast asleep,

In glided MARGARET's grimly ghoft
And stood at WILLIAM's feet.

Her face was like an April morn,
Clad in a wintry cloud,

And clay-cold was her lily hand,
That held her fable fhroud.

So fhall the faireft face appear,

When youth and years are flown; Such is the robe that kings muft wear When death has reft their crown,

£ 5 .

Her

niallet.

Mallet.

Her bloom was like the springing flower
That fips the filver dew;

The role was budded in her cheek,
Juft opening to the view.

But love had, like the canker worm,
Confum'd her early prime;

The rofe grew pale and left her cheek,
She died before her time.

Awake, fhe cried, thy true-love calls
Come from her midnight grave;
Now let thy pity hear the maid
Thy love refufed to fave,

This is the mirk and fearful hour,
When injur'd ghofts complain;
Now dreary graves give up their dead
To haunt the faithlefs fwain.

Bethink thee, WILLIAM, of thy fault,

Thy pledge, and broken oath;
And give me back my maiden vow,
And give me back my troth.

How could you fay my face was fair,
And yet that face forfake?

How could you win my virgin heart,
Yet leave that heart to break?

How could you promife love to me,
And not that promife keep?

Why did you fwear mine eyes were bright,
Yet leave thofe eyes to weep?

How could you fay my lips were sweet,
And made the fcarlet pale?

And why did I, young witless maid,
Believe the flatt'ring tale?

That face, alas! no more is fair,
Thofe lips no longer red;

Dark

The hungry worm my fifter is,

This winding theet I wear,

And cold and weary lasts our night

Till that laft morn appear.

But hark! the cock has warn'd me hence,
A long and last adieu!

Come, fee, falfe man, how low fhe lies,
That died for love of you.

Now birds did fing, and morning smite
And fhew her glift'ring head;

Pale WILLIAM fhook in every limb,
And raving left his bed.

He hied him to the fatal place

Where MARG'RET's body lay,
And stretch'd him on the green grafs turf
That wrap'd her breathless clay.

And thrice he call'd on MARGRET's name,
And thrice he wept full fore;

Then laid his cheek to the cold earth,

And word spake never more,

Mallet.

Gay.

In seiner tragikomischen Oper, What d'ye call it? ist diese schöne, gefühlvolle kleine Ballade eins der einges webten Lieder. Sie steht auch in Ramsays Tea-table Collection, II. 25. und in mehrern englischen Liedersammlungen; deutsch in den Volksliedern, B. I. S. 77, unter der Au schrift, das Mädchen am Ufer,

"T

was when the feas were roaring With hollow blafts of wind,

A damfel lay deploring,

All on a rock reclin'd:
Wide o'er the foaming billows

She caft a wishful look

Her head was crown'd with willows
That trembled o'er the brook.

Twelve months are gone and over
And nine long tedious days;
Why didft thou, vent'rous lover,
Why didft thou truft the feas?
Ceafe, ceafe, thou cruel ocean
And let a lover reft;

Ah! what's thy troubled motion
To that within my breaft?

The merchant robb'd of treasure
Views tempefts in defpair;
But what's the lofs of treasure
To the lofing of my dear?
Should you fome coaft be laid on
Where goid an diamonds grow
You'll find a richer maiden,
But none that loves you fo

How