A Ballad Called Perkins's Figary

or,

A Ballad New Which Doth Most Plainly Show

How Seventy-Nine Would Fain Be Forty-Two

Come listen, good people, to what I shall say
Concerning the blessing of this happy day;
The downfall of Perkin and joyful return
Of a prince that will make his electorate mourn.
Though Shaftesbury plotted
And Grey was besotted,
Though Armstrong to ground of artillery trotted —
Yet His Highness, God bless him, is safely come back
To the shame and confusion of Perkin Warbeck.

This Perkin's a prince whose excellency lies

A True Tale of Robin Hood

Both gentlemen, and yeomen bold,
Or whatsoever you are,
To have a stately story told
Attention now prepare:

It is a tale of Robin Hood,
Which I to you will tell;
Which, being rightly understood,
I know will please you well.

This Robin (so much talked on)
Was once a man of fame,
Instiled earl of Huntington,
Lord Robin Hood by name.

In courtship and magnificence
His carriage won him praise,
And greater favour with his prince
Than any in " those" days.

In bounteous liberality

A Ballad of the Rising in the North

The widows be woeful whose husbands be taken,
The children lament them that are so forsaken,
The Churchmen they chanted the morrow mass bell,
Their pardons be granted, they hang very well.
Well-a-day, well-a-day, well-a-day, woe is me,
Sir Thomas Plumtre is hanged on a tree.

It is known they be fled that were the beginners,
It is time they were dead, poor sorrowful sinners;
For all their great haste, they are hedged at a stay
With weeping and wailing to sing well-a-day.

A Ballad of All the Trades

Oh the Miller, the dusty, musty Miller,
The Miller, that beareth on his Back;
He never does to Measure Meal,
But his Maid, but his Maid, but his Maid holds ope the sack.

O the Baker, the bonny, bonny Baker,
The Baker that is so full of Sin;
He never heats his Oven hot,
But he thrusts, but he thrusts, but he thrusts his Maiden in.

O the Brewer, the lusty, lusty Brewer,
The Brewer that Brews Ale and Beer;
He never heats his Liquor hot,
But he takes, but he takes, but he takes his Maid by the Geer.

Winfreda

(A BALLAD IN THE ANGLO-SAXON TONGUE)

When to the dreary greenwood gloam
Winfreda's husband strode that day,
The fair Winfreda bode at home
To toil the weary time away;
"While thou art gone to hunt," said she,
"I'll brew a goodly sop for thee."

Lo, from a further, gloomy wood,
A hungry wolf all bristling hied
And on the cottage threshold stood
And saw the dame at work inside;
And, as he saw the pleasing sight,
He licked his fangs so sharp and white.

Now when Winfreda saw the beast,


To Mr. Edward Howard on His New Utopia

Thou damn'd antipodes to common sense!
Thou foil to Flecknoe! Prithee tell from whence
Does all this mighty stock of dullness spring,
Which in such loads thou to the stage dost bring?
Is't all thy own, or hast thou from Snow Hill
Th'assistance of some ballad-making quill?
No, they fly higher yet; thy plays are such
I'd swear they were translated out of Dutch:
And who the devil was e'er yet so drunk
To own the volumes of Mynheer Van Dunk?
Fain would I know what diet thou dost keep,


The wooing of the southland

(ALASKAN BALLAD)

The Northland reared his hoary head
And spied the Southland leagues away--
"Fairest of all fair brides," he said,
"Be thou my bride, I pray!"

Whereat the Southland laughed and cried:
"I'll bide beside my native sea,
And I shall never be thy bride
Till thou com'st wooing me!"

The Northland's heart was a heart of ice,
A diamond glacier, mountain high--
Oh, love is sweet at any price,
As well know you and I!

So gayly the Northland took his heart


The Two Ogres

Good children, list, if you're inclined,
And wicked children too -
This pretty ballad is designed
Especially for you.

Two ogres dwelt in Wickham Wold -
Each TRAITS distinctive had:
The younger was as good as gold,
The elder was as bad.

A wicked, disobedient son
Was JAMES M'ALPINE, and
A contrast to the elder one,
Good APPLEBODY BLAND.

M'ALPINE - brutes like him are few -
In greediness delights,
A melancholy victim to
Unchastened appetites.


The Sorcerer Act I

DRAMATIS PERSONAE

Sir Marmaduke Pointdextre, an Elderly Baronet

Alexis, of the Grenadier Guards--His Son

Dr. Daly, Vicar of Ploverleigh

John Wellington Wells, of J. W. Wells & Co., Family Sorcerers

Lady Sangazure, a Lady of Ancient Lineage

Aline, Her Daughter--betrothed to Alexis

Mrs. Partlet, a Pew-Opener

Constance, her Daughter

Chorus of Villagers


ACT I -- Grounds of Sir Marmaduke's Mansion, Mid-day



the sonnet-ballad

Oh mother, mother, where is happiness?
They took my lover's tallness off to war,
Left me lamenting. Now I cannot guess
What I can use an empty heart-cup for.
He won't be coming back here any more.
Some day the war will end, but, oh, I knew
When he went walking grandly out that door
That my sweet love would have to be untrue.
Would have to be untrue. Would have to court
Coquettish death, whose impudent and strange
Possessive arms and beauty (of a sort)
Can make a hard man hesitate--and change.


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