Part 1

Produced by Beth Constantine, David Starner, Charles Franks and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team.

Quaint Gleanings From Ancient Poetry:

A COLLECTION OF CURIOUS POETICAL COMPOSITIONS OF THE XVIth, XVIIth, AND XVIIIth CENTURIES.

EDITED From MSS. and Rare Printed Originals BY EDMUND GOLDSMID, F.R.H.S.

INTRODUCTION.

The following curious collection I have gathered together during several years' reading in out-of-the-way corners. Manuscripts, in public and private libraries; old books picked up on dusty bookstalls, or carried away as prizes from the battlefield of the auction-room; even pencillings on the inside of tattered bindings,--all have been laid under contribution. I trust this medley, or _pot-pourri_, of snatches of song, grave and gay, will prove as interesting to my readers as they have been to myself. They claim attention on various grounds: some are the works of well-known men, such as Anthony Munday and Warren Hastings; some are bitter political squibs--such, for instance, as the "Satyre against the Scots," page 47; some, again, are exquisitely beautiful, as "The Dirge," page 53. A few have appeared in different collections: but none of my readers, I will undertake to say, have seen more than a half-dozen or so.

With these few words I beg to introduce Volume One of the "Collectanea Adamantaea."

EDMUND GOLDSMID.

Edinburgh, _March 6th_, 1884.

CONTENTS.

I. BEAUTIES FORT

II. MY BONNY LASS, THINE EYE

III. ANTHONY MUNDAY'S POEM ON THE CAPTIVITY OF JOHN FOX

IV. CARE FOR THY SOUL

V. MEGLIORA SPERO

VI. A LETTER FROM THE DUKE OF MONMOUTH TO THE KING

VII. THE KING'S ANSWER

VIII. AN EPITAPH ON DUNDEE

IX. THE ROBBER ROBB'D

X. AH! THE SHEPHERD'S MOURNFUL FATE

XI. VERSES TO A FRIEND

XII. A PANYGYRICK UPON OATES

XIII. THE MIRACLE

XIV. THE PATRIOTS

XV. JUSTICE IN MASQUERADE

XVI. THE BRAWNY BISHOP'S LAMENT

XVII. THE POOR BLIND BOY

XVIII. THE INISKILLING REGIMENT

XIX. A BALLAD ON THE FLEET

XX. ON MR. FOX AND MR. HASTINGS

XXI. AN IMITATION OF HORACE, BK. II, ODE 16

XXII. EPITAPH ON DR. JOHNSON

XXIII. VERSES UPON THE ROAD

XXIV. SATYR ON THE SCOTS

XXV. THE MARSEILLAISE

XXVI. A DIRGE

BEAUTIES FORT.

FROM AN ANONYMOUS MS., LATELY IN POSSESSION OF J. P. COLLIER, ESQ., F.S.A.

When raging Love, with fierce assault, Strikes at fair Beauties gate, What army hath she to resist And keepe her court and state?

She calleth first on Chastitie To lende her help in time; And Prudence no lesse summons shee To meet her foe so trim.

And female Courage she alwaye Doth bring unto the walle, To blowe the trump in her dismaye, Fearing her fort may falle.

On force of wordes she much relies Her foe without to keepe, And parleyeth with her two bright eyes When they her dyke would leape.

Yet natheless the more she strives, The lesse she keepes him out, For she hath traitors in her camp That keepe her still in doubt.

The first and worst of these the Fleshe, Then womans Vanitie That still is caughte within the meshe Of guilefull Flatterie.

These traitors ope the gate at length; And in, with sword in hande, Came raging Love, and all her strength No longer can withstande.

Prudence and Chastitie both to Submit unto the foe; And female Courage nought can doe But down her walls must goe.

She needes must yield her castle strong, And Love triumphs once more; Its onely what the boy hath done A thousand times before.

None may resist his mightie power; And though a boy, and blinde, He knows to chase a happie hour When maidens must be kinde.

MY BONNY LASS! THINE EYE.

By THOMAS LODGE, M.D.

[Footnote: The original of this poem not being within my reach at present, I have inserted Professor Arber's modern version.]

My bonny lass! thine eye, So sly, Hath made me sorrow so. Thy crimson cheeks, my dear! So clear, Have so much wrought my woe.

Thy pleasing smiles and grace, Thy face, Have ravished so my sprites, That life is grown to nought Through thought Of love, which me affrights.

For fancy's flames of fire Aspire Unto such furious power, As but the tears I shed Make dead, The brands would me devour.

I should consume to nought Through thought Of thy fair shining eye, Thy cheeks, thy pleasing smiles, The wiles That forced my heart to die,

Thy grace, thy face, the part Where art Stands gazing still to see The wondrous gifts and power, Each hour, That hath bewitched me.

ANTHONY MUNDAY'S POEM ON THE CAPTIVITY OF JOHN FOX.

Leeving at large all fables vainly us'd, all trifling toys that doe no truth import, Lo, here how the end (at length), though long diffus'd, unfoldeth plaine a rare and true report, To glad those minds who seek their countries wealth by proffer'd pains t'enlarge its happy health.

At Rome I was when Fox did there arrive; therefore I may sufficiently express What gallant joy his deedes did there revive in the hearts of those which heard his valiantness. And how the Pope did recompense his pains, and letters gave to move his greater gains.

But yet I know that many doe misdoubt that those his pains are fables, and untrue; Not only I in this will bear him out, but divers more that did his Patents view, And unto those so boldly I dare say that nought but truth John Fox cloth here bewray.

Besides, there's one was slave with him in thrall lately return'd into our native land; This witness can this matter perfect all: what needeth more? for witness he may stand. And thus I end, unfolding what I know; the other man more larger proof can show. "_Honos alit Artes_"

The above lines by Anthony Munday are omitted by Hakluyt in his reprint of the captivity of John Fox in his "Principal English Voyages," vol. ii. p. 136, ed. 1598-1600. John Fox, of Woodbridge, gunner of the _Three Half Moons_, was made prisoner by the Turks in 1563. Escaped with 266 other Christians in 1577.

CARE FOR THY SOULE.

Care for thy soule, as thing of greatest pryce! Made to the ende to taste of power Divine, Devoid of guilt, abhorryng sin and vice, Apt by God's grace to virtue to incline; Care for it soe, as by thy retchless traine It bee not brought to taste eternall paine!

Care for thy corpse (body), but chiefely for soules sake, Not of excess; sustainyng food is best To vanquish pryde, but comely clothing take. Seeke after skille; deepe ignorance detest; Care so, I say, the flesh to feede and cloth, That thou harm not thy soule and bodie both.

Care for the world, to doe thy bodie right; Back not thy wytt to win by wicked wayes; Seeke not t'oppress the weak by wrongfull might; To pay thy due, doe banish all delayes; Care to dispend accordyng to thy store, And, in like sort, bee mindfull of the pore.

Care for thy soule, as for thy chiefest staye, Care for thy bodie, for the soules avail; Care for the world, for bodies helpe alwaye, Care yett but soe as virtue may prevail; Care in such sort, that thou be sure of this, Care keepe the not from heaven and heavenlie blisse.

MEGLIORA SPERO.

By Edward de Vere, Earl of Oxford.

Faction, that ever dwells in Courte where witt excels, Hath sett defiance; Fortune and Love have sworne that they were never borne Of one alliance.

Cupid, which doth aspire to be god of Desire, Swears he "gives lawes; That where his arrows hit, somejoy, some sorrow it: Fortune no cause."

Fortune swears "weakest heartes," the bookes of Cupide's artes. "Turn'd with her wheel, Senselesse themselves shal prove. Venture hath place in love. Aske them that feel!"

This discord it begot atheists, that honour not. Nature thought good Fortune shoud ever dwel in Court where wits excel; Love keepe the wood.

Soe to the wood went I, with Love to live and dye; Fortunes forlorne. Experience of my youth made mee thinke humble Truth In deserts borne.

My saint I keepe to mee, and Joan herself is free, Joan fair and true! Shee that doth onely move passions of love with Love. Fortune! adieu!

A LETTER FROM THE DUKE OF MONMOUTH TO THE KING.

Disgrac'd, undone, forlorn, made Fortune's Sport, Banish'd your Kingdom first, and then your Court; Out of my Places turn'd, and out of Doors, And made the meanest of your Sons of Whores; The scene of Laughter, and the common chats Of your salt Bitches, and your other Brats; Forc'd to a private Life, to Whore and Drink, On my past Grandeur and my Follies Think: Would I had been the Brat of some mean Drab, Whom Fear or Chance had caus'd to choak or stab, Rather than be the Issue of a King, And by him made so wretched, scorn'd a Thing. How little cause has mankind to be proud Of Noble Birth, the Idol of the Crowd! Have I abroad in Battels Honour won To be at home dishonourably undone? Mark'd with a Star and Garter, and made fine With all those gaudy Trifles once call'd mine, Your Hobby-Horses [1] and your Joys of State, And now become the Object of your Hate; But, d------'ee, Sir, I'll be Legitimate. I was your Darling, but against your Will, And know that I will be the Peoples still; And when you're dead, I and my Friends, the Rout, Will with my Popish Uncle try a Bout, And to my Troubles this one Comfort bring, Next after you, by ------, I will be King.

[Footnote 1: At the age of sixteen he was made Master of the Horse.]

THE KING'S ANSWER.

Ungrateful Boy! I will not call thee Son, Thou hast thyself unhappily undone; And thy Complaints serve but to show thee more, How much thou hast enrag'd thy Father's Whore. Resent it not, shake not thy addle Head, And be no more by Clubs and Rascals led. Have I made thee the Darling of my Joys, The prettiest and the lustiest of my Boys? Have I so oft sent thee with cost to France, To take new Dresses up, and learn to dance? Have I giv'n thee a Ribbon and a Star, And sent thee like a Meteor to the War? Have I done all that Royal Dad could do, And do you threaten now to be untrue? But say I did with thy fond Mother sport, To the same kindness others had resort; 'Twas my good Nature, and I meant her Fame, To shelter thee under my Royal Name. Alas! I never got one Brat alone, My Mistresses all are by each Fop well known, And I still willing all their Brats to own. I made thee once,'tis true, the Post of Grace, And stuck upon thee every mighty Place, Each glitt'ring Office, till thy heavy Brow Grew dull with Honour, and my Pow'r low. I spangled thee with Favours, hung thy Nose With Rings of Gold and Pearl, till all grew Foes By secret Envy at thy growing State: I lost my safety when I made thee Great. There's not the least Injustice to you shewn; You must be ruin'd to secure my Throne. Office is but a fickle Grace, the Badge Bestow'd by fits, and snatch'd away in Rage; And sure that Livery which I give my Slaves I may take from 'em when my Portsmouth raves. Thou art a Creature of my own Creation; Then swallow this without Capitulation. If you with feigned Wrongs still keep a Clutter, And make the People for your Sake to mutter, For my own Comfort, but your Trouble, know, G------fish, I'll send you to the Shades below.

AN EPITAPH ON DUNDEE.

ENGLISH'D BY MR. DRYDEN.

O Last and Bests of Scots! Who didst maintain Thy Country's Freedom from a Foreign Reign, New People fill the Land now thou art gone, New Gods the Temples, and new Kings the Throne. Scotland and thou did each in other live, Thou wouldst not her, nor could she thee, survive. Farewell! who living didst support the State, And couldst not fall but with thy Country's Fate.

THE ROBBER ROBB'D.

I.

A certain Priest had hoarded up A mass of secret Gold. And where he might bestow it safe He knew not to be bold.

II.

At last it came into his Thought To lock it in a Chest Within the Chancel; and he wrote Thereon, "_Hic Deus est_."

III.

A merry Grig, whose greedy Mind Did long for such a Prey, Respecting not the Sacred Words That on the Casket lay,

IV.

Took out the Gold, and blotting out The Priest's Inscript thereon, Wrote, "_Resurrexit, non est hic_": "Your God is rose and gone."

AH! THE SHEPHERD'S MOURNFUL FATE!

Ah! the shepherd's mournful fate! When doom'd to love, and doom'd to languish, To bear the scornful fair one's hate, Nor dare disclose his anguish. Yet eager looks, and dying sighs, My secret soul discover, While rapture trembling thro' my eyes Reveals how much I love her. The tender glance; the redd'ning cheek, O'erspread with rising blushes, A thousand various ways they speak A thousand various wishes. For, oh! that form so heavenly fair, Those languid eyes so sweetly smiling, That artless blush, and modest air, So artfully beguiling! [2] Thy every look and every grace So charms whene'er I view thee, Till death o'ertake me in the chase Still will my hopes pursue thee; Then when my tedious hours are past Be this last blessing given, Low at thy feet to breathe my last, And die in sight of heaven.

[Footnote 2: "_Ars celare artem_."]

SOME VERSES TO A FRIEND WHO TWICE VENTURED ON MARRIAGE.

BY THOMAS BROWN.

The Husband's the Pilot, the Wife is the Ocean, He always in danger, she always in motion; And he that in Wedlock twice hazards his Carcase Twice ventures the Drowning, and, Faith, that's a hard case. Even at our Weapons the Females defeat us, And Death, only Death, can sign our _Quietus_. Not to tell you sad stories of Liberty lost, Our Mirth is all pall'd, and our Measures all crost; That Pagan Confinement, that damnable Station, Sutes no other States or Degrees in the Nation. The _Levite_ it keeps from Parochial Duty, For who can at once mind Religion and Beauty? The Rich it alarms with Expences and Trouble, And a poor Beast, you know, can scarce carry double. 'Twas invented, they tell you, to keep us from falling; Oh the Virtues and Graces of shrill Caterwauling! How it palls in your Gain; but, pray, how do you know, Sir, How often your Neighbour breaks in your Enclosure? For this is the principal Comforts of Marriage, You must eat tho' a hundred have spit in your Porridg. If at night you're inactive, or fail in performing, Enter Thunder and Lightning, and Blood-shed, next Morning; Lust's the Bone of your Shanks, O dear Mr. Horner: This comes of your sinning with Crape in a Corner. Then to make up the Breach all your Strength you must rally, And labour and sweat like a Slave in a Gaily; And still you must charge--O blessed Condition!-- Tho' you know, to your cost, you've no more Ammunition: Till at last the poor fool of a mortified man Is unable to make a poor Flash in the Pan. Fire, Flood, and Female, begin with a letter, But for all the World's not a Farthing the better. Your Flood is soon gone, and your Fire you must humble, If into Flames store of Water you tumble; But to cure the damn'd Lust of your Wife's Titilation, You may use all the Engines and Pumps in the Nation, As well you may p---- out the last Conflagration. And thus I have sent you my Thoughts of the matter; You may judge as you please; I scorn for to flatter: I could say much more, but here ends the Chapter.

A PANYGYRICK UPON OATES.

Of all the Grain our Nation yields In Orchard, Gardens, or in Fields, There is a grain which, tho' 'tis common, Its Worth till now was known to no Man. Not _Ceres_ Sickle e're did crop A Grain with Ears of greater hope: And yet this Grain (as all must own) To Grooms and Hostlers well is known, And often has without disdain In musty Barn and Manger lain, As if it had been only good To be for Birds and Beasts the Food. But now by new-inspired Force, It keeps alive both Man and Horse. Then speak, my Muse, for now I guess E'en what it is thou wouldst express: It is not Barley, Rye, nor Wheat, That can pretend to do the Feat: 'Tis _Oates_, bare _Oates_, that is become The Health of _England_, Bane of _Rome_, And Wonder of all Christendom. And therefore _Oates_ has well deserv'd To be from musty Barn prefer'd, And now in Royal Court preserv'd, That like _Hesperian_ Fruit, _Oates_ may Be watch'd and guarded Night and Day, Which is but just retaliation For having guarded a whole Nation. Hence e'ery lofty Plant that stands 'Twixt _Berwick_ Walls and _Dover_ Sands, The Oak itself (which well we stile The Pride and Glory of our Isle), Must strike and wave its lofty Head. And now salute an Oaten Reed, For surely Oates deserves to be Exalted far 'bove any Tree. The Agyptians once (tho' it seems odd) Did worship Onions for their God, And poor Peelgarlick was with them Esteem'd beyond the richest Gem. What would they then have done, think ye, Had they but had such _Oates_ as we, _Oates_ of such known Divinity? Since then such good by _Oates_ we find, Let _Oates_ at least be now enshrin'd; Or in some sacred Press enclos'd, Be only kept to be expos'd; And all fond Relicks else shall be Deem'd Objects of Idolatry. Popelings may tell us how they saw Their _Garnet_ pictur'd on a Straw. 'Twas a great Miracle, we know, To see him drawn in little so: But on an _Oaten_ stalk there is A greater Miracle than this; A Visage which, with comly Grace, Did twenty _Garnets_ now outface: Nay, to the Wonder to add more, Declare unheard-of things before; And thousand Myst'ries does unfold, As plain as Oracles of old, By which we steer Affairs of State, And stave off _Britain's_ sullen Fate. Let's then, in Honour of the Name Of _OATES_, enact some Solemn Game, Where Oaten Pipe shall us inspire Beyond the charms of _Orpheus_ Lyre; Stone, Stocks, and e'ery sensless thing To _Oates_ shall dance, to _Oates_ shall sing, Whilst Woods amaz'd to t'Ecchoes ring. And that this Hero's Name may not, When they are rotten, be forgot, We'll hang Atchievments o'er their Dust, A Debt we owe to Merits just So if Deserts of _Oates_ we prize, Let _Oates_ still hang before our Eyes, Thereby to raise our contemplation, _Oates_ being to this happy Nation A Mystick Emblem of Salvation.

THE MIRACLE.

TO THE TUNE OF "O YOUTH, THOU HADST BETTER BEEN STARVED AT NURSE."

I.

You Catholick States-men and Church-men, rejoyce, And praise Heaven's Goodness with Heart and with Voice; None greater on Earth or in Heaven than She, Some say she's as good as the best of the Three. Her miracles bold Were famous of old, But a Braver than this was never yet told; 'Tis pity that every good Catholick living Had not heard on't before the last Day of Thanksgiving.

II.

In _Lombardy-Land_ great _Modena's_ Duchess [3] Was snatched from her Empire by Death's cruel clutches; When to Heaven she came (for thither she went) Each Angel received her with Joy and Content. On her knees she fell down, Before the bright Throne, And begged that God's Mother would grant her one Boon: Give _England_ a Son (at this Critical Point) To put little _Orange's_ Nose out of Joynt.

III.

As soon as our Lady had heard her Petition, To _Gabriel_, the Angel, she strait gave Commission; She pluck'd off her Smock from her _Shoulders Divine_, And charg'd him to hasten to _England's_ fair Queen. "Go to the Royal Dame, To give her the same, And bid her for ever to praise my Great Name, For I, in her favour, will work such a Wonder, Shall keep the most Insolent Hereticks under.

IV.

"Tell _James_ (my best son) his part of the matter Must be with this only to cover my daughter; Let him put it upon her with's own Royal Hand, Then let him go travel to visit the Land; And the Spirit of Love Shall come from above, Though not as before, in form of a Dove; Yet down He shall come in some likeness or other (Perhaps like Count _Dada_), and make her a Mother."

V.

The Message with Hearts full of Faith was receiv'd, And the next news we heard was _Q. M._ conceiv'd; You great ones Converted, poor cheated Dissenters, Grave Judges, Lords, Bishops, and Commons Consenters, You Commissioners all Ecclesiastical, From _M_...[4] the Dutiful to _C_...[5] the Tall, Pray Heav'n to strengthen Her Majesties Placket, For if this Trick fail, beware of your Jacket.

[Footnote 3: Maria Laura d'Este.]

[Footnote 4: John, Earl of Mulgrave, Lord Chamberlain of the Household.]

[Footnote 5: William, Earl of Craven.]

THE PATRIOTS.

WRIT ABOUT THE YEAR 1700.

I.

Ye worthy Patriots, go on To heal the Nation's Sores, Find all Men's Faults out but your own, Begin good Laws, but finish none, And then shut up your Doors.

II.

Fail not our Freedom to secure, And all our Friends disband, And send those Men to t'other Shore Who were such Fools as to come o'er To help this grateful Land.

III.

And may the next that hears us pray, And in Distress relieve us, Go home like those without their Pay, And with Contempt be sent away For having once believ'd us.

IV.

And if the _French_ should e'er attempt This Nation to invade, May they be damn'd that list again, But lead the fam'd Militia on, To be like us betray'd.

V.

As for the Crown you have bestow'd, With all its Limitations, The meanest Prince in _Christendom_ Would never stir a Mile from home To govern three such Nations.

VI.

The King himself, whom once you call'd Your Saviour in Distress, You in his first Request deny'd, And then his Royal Patience try'd With a canting sham Address.

VII.

Ye are the Men that to be chose Wou'd be at no Expences, Who love no Friends, nor fear no Foes, Have ways and means that no Man knows To mortify your Senses.

VIII.

Ye are the Men that can condemn By Laws made _ex post facto_, Who can make Knaves of honest Men, And married Women turn again To be Virgo and Intacta.

IX.

Go on to purify the Court, And damn the Men of Places Till decently you send them home, And get your selves put in their room, And then you'll change your Faces.

X.

Go on for to establish Trade, And mend our Navigation, Let India invade, And borrow on Funds will ne'er be paid, And Bankrupt all the Nation.

XI.

'Tis you that calculate our Gold, And with a senseless Tone, Vote that you never understood, That we might take them if we wou'd Or let them all alone.

XII.

Your Missives you send round about With Mr. _Speaker's_ Letter, To fetch Folks in, and find Folks out, Which Fools believe without dispute, Because they know no better.

XIII.

With borrow'd Ships, and hir'd Men, The _Irish_ to reduce, Who will be paid the Lord knows when; 'Tis hop'd whene'er you want again, You'll think of that Abuse.

XIV.

Ye laid sham Taxes on our Malt, On Salt, on Glass, on Leather, To wheedle Coxcombs in to lend; And like true Cheats, you dropt that Fund, And sunk them all altogether.

XV.

And now y'are piously enclin'd The Needy to employ; You'd better much your time bestow To pay neglected Debts you owe, Which makes them multiply.

XVI.

Against Prophaneness you declar'd, And then the Bill rejected; And when the Arguments appear'd, They were the worst that e'er were heard, And best that we expected.

XVII.

'Twas voted once that for the Sin Of Whoring Men should die all; But then it was wisely thought again. The House would quickly grow so thin, They durst not stand the Tryal.

XVIII.

King _Charles_ the Second knew your aim, And Places gave, and Pensions; And had King _William's_ Mony flown, His Majesty would soon have known Your Consciences Dimensions.

XIX.

But he has wisely given you up To work your own desires, And laying Arguments aside, As things that have in vain been try'd, To Fasting calls, and Prayers.

CHORUS-- Your Hours are choicely employ'd, Your Petitions lie all on the Table, With Funds Insufficient, And Taxes Deficient, And Deponents innumerable. For shame leave this wicked Employment, Reform both your Manners and Lives; You were never sent out To make such a Rout, Go home, and look after your W----s.

JUSTICE IN MASQUERADE; OR, SCROGGS UPON SCROGGS.