VI. Awake! fhe cry'd, thy true love calls, Now let thy pity hear the maid, VII. This is the dumb and dreary hour, VIII. Bethink thee, William, of thy fault, Why did you promife love to me, Why did you fwear my eyes were bright, Yet leave thofe eyes to weep ? X. How could you fay my face was fair, And yet that face forfake? How could you win my virgin-heart, XI. Why did you fay, my lip was sweet, And why did I, young witlefs maid! XII, That face, alas! no more is air Thofe lips no longer red: Dark are my eyes, now clos'd in death, And every charm is fled. XIII. The hungry worm my fifter is; This winding-fheet I wear: Till that laft morn appear. XIV. But, hark! the cock has warn'd me hence; A long and late adieu! Come, fee, falfe man, how low the lies, Who dy'd for love of you. XV. The lark fung loud; the morning fmil'd, With beams of rofy red: Pale William quak'd in every limb, And raving left his bed. XVI. He hy'd him to the fatal place And stretch'd him on the green-grafs turf, That wrap'd her breathless clay. XVII. And . XVII. And thrice he call'd on Margaret's name, Then laid his cheek to her cold grave, N. B. In a comedy of Fletcher, called "The Knight of the burning Peftle," old Merry-Thought enters repeating the following verfes: When it was grown to dark midnight, And ftood at William's feet. This was, probably, the beginning of fome ballad, commonly known, at the time when that author wrote; and is all of it, I believe, that is any where to be met with. Thefe lines, naked of ornament, and fimple as they are, ftruck my fancy: and, bringing fresh into my mind an unhappy adventure, much talked of formerly, gave birth to the foregoing poem; which was written many ago. MALLET. An elegant Latin imitation of this ballad is printed in the works of Vincent Bourne. N. EPITAPH, on Mr. AIKMAN, and his only Son: who were both interred in the fame grave. EAR to the wife and good, difprais'd by none, DE Here fleep in peace the father and the fon. By virtue, as by nature, close ally'd, The painter's genius, but without the pride; Honour's clear light, and Friendship's warmth divine.. EPITAPH ON A YOUNG LADY. T HIS humble grave though no proud structures grace, Yet Truth and Goodness fanctify the place : Yet blameless Virtue, that adorn'd thy bloom, Lamented maid! now weeps upon thy tomb. O fcap'd from life! O fafe on that calm fhore, Where fin, and pain, and paffion are no more! What never wealth could buy, nor power decree, Regard and Pity, wait fincere on thee: Lo! foft Remembrance drops a pious tear; And holy Friendship stands a mourner here. SONG, To a SCOTCH TUNE. THE BIRKS OF ENDERMAY. THE I. HE fmiling morn, the breathing spring, And while they warble from each spray, Let us, Amanda, timely wife, Like them improve the hour that flies II. For foon the winter of the year, OF |