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 Ile 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,

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Which made their hearts waxe fore adread: 130

Then Horseley fayd, Aboard, my lord,

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

They boarded it with might and maine; Eighteen score Scotts alive they found,

The reft were either maimd or flaine.

Lord Howard tooke a sword in hand,

And off he fmote Sir Andrewes head; "I muft ha' left England many a daye, If thou wert alive as thou art dead.” He caufed his body to be caft

Over the hatchborde into the sea,

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

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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;

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

As never did subject to a king.

"Sir Andrewes shipp I bring with mee;

A braver fhipp was never none:

Nowe hath your grace two fhipps of warre,

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Before in England was but one." King Henryes grace with royall cheere Welcomed the noble Howard home, And where, faid he, is this rover tout,

That I myfelfe 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 ha' 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 Horfeley, Henry Hunt,

And Peter Simon, and his fonne."

Το

To Henry Hunt, the king then fayd,

In lieu of what was from thee tane,
A noble a day now thou fhalt have,
Sir Andrewes jewels and his chayne."
And Horseley thou shalt be a knight,

And lands and livings fhalt have store ;
Howard fhall be earle Surrye hight,

As Howards erft have beene before.

Nowe, Peter Simon, thou art old,

I will maintaine thee and thy fonne :

And the men fhall 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 feen a gallant fight.

But when they see his deadlye face,

And eyes foe hallowe in his head,

I wold give, quoth the king, a thousand markes,

This man were alive as he is dead :

Yet for the manfull part he playd,

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185

Which fought foe well with heart and hand, 190

His men shall have twelvepence a day,

Till they come to my brother kings high land.

VOL. II.

XIII. LADY

XIII.

LADY ANNE BOTHWELL's LAMENT. A SCOTTISH SONG.

The fubject of this pathetic ballad the Editor once thought might poffibly relate to the Earl of Bothwell, and his deJertion of his wife Lady Jean Gordon, to make room for his marriage with the Queen of Scots: But this opinion be now believes to be groundless; indeed earl Bothwell's age, who was upwards of 60 at the time of that marriage, renders it unlikely that he should be the object of fo warm a paffion as this elegy fuppofes. He has been firce informed, that it entirely refers to a private ftory: A lady of quality of the name of BOTHWELL, or rather BOSWELL, baving been, together with her child, deferted by her husband or lover, compofed thefe affecting lines her felf; which here are given from a copy in the Editor's folio MS. compared with another in Allan Ramfay's Mifcellany.

BALOW, my babe, ly ftil 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 mithers joy,
Thy father breides me great annoy.

Balow, my babe, ly ftil and fleipe,
It grieves me fair to fee thee weepe.

5

Whan

Whan he began to court my luve,

And with his fugred wordes

to muve,

10

His faynings fals, and flattering cheire
To me that time did not appeire:

But now I fee, moft cruell hee

Cares neither for my babe nor mee.

Ly ftil, my darling, fleipe a while,
And whan thou wakeft, fweitly fimile:
But fmile 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, &c.

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

Whair-eir he gae, whair-eir he rydes
My luve with him maun ftil abyde:
In weil or wae, whair-eir he gae,
Mine hart can neire depart him frae.

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* 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 exprefs extreme and delicate fweetness. (See above, p. 176.) Sugar at prefent is cheap and common; and therefore fuggefts now a coarfe and vulgar idea.