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Or there be other people, manners, laws, Than them he finds within the roaring waves;

That sweeter flow'rs do spring than grow
on rocks,

Or beasts be which excel the scaly flocks;
That other elements be to be found,
Than is the water, and this ball of ground.
But think that man from those abysms
were brought,

To leave this loathsome jail of care and pain,

But thou who vulgar footsteps dost not trace,

Learn to raise up thy mind unto this place,
And what earth-creeping mortals most

If not at all to scorn, yet to neglect:
O chase not shadows vain, which, when


And saw what curious nature here hath Were better lost, than with such travail wrought, Did see the meads, the tall and shady Think that on earth, which humans greatwoods, ness call, The hills did see, the clear and ambling Is but a glorious title to live thrall; floods; That sceptres, diadems, and chairs of state The diverse shapes of beasts which kinds Not in themselves, but to small minds are forth bring,


The feathered troops, that fly and sweetly How those who loftiest mount do hardest


Did see the palaces, the cities fair,

The form of human life, the fire, the air, The brightness of the sun that dims his sight,

The moon, the ghastly splendours of the night:

What uncouth rapture would his mind surprise!


And deepest falls be from the highest

How fame an echo is, how all renown
Like to a blasted rose, ere night falls


And though it something were, think how this round


Is but a little point, which doth it bound. How would he his late dear resort de- O leave that love which reacheth but to spise ! How would he muse how foolish he had And in that love eternal only trust, been And beauty, which, when once it is possest To think nought be, but what he there Can only fill the soul, and make it blest. Pale envy, jealous emulations, fears, Sighs, plaints, remorse, here have no

had seen!

Why did we get this high and vast desire,
Unto immortal things still to aspire?
Why doth our mind extend it beyond

And to that highest happiness even climb,
If we be nought but what to sense we seem,
And dust, as most of wordlings us esteem?
We be not made for earth, though here

we come,

More than the embryon for the mother's womb;

It weeps to be made free, and we complain

place, nor tears,

False joys, vain hopes, here be not hate nor wrath;

What ends all love, here most augments
it, death.

If such force had the dim glance of an eye,
Which some few days thereafter was to die,
That it could make thee leave all other

And like the taper-fly there burn thy

And if a voice, of late which could but wail, Such pow'r had, as through ears thy soul to steal;

If once thou on that only fair couldst gaze, What flames of love would he within thee raise?

In what a mazing maze would it thee bring To hear but once that quire celestial sing? The fairest shapes on which thy love did seize,

Which erst did breed delight, then would displease;

And do not drown them in the must of sense:

Do not, O do not, by false pleasures' might Deprive them of that true and sole delight.

That happiness ye seek is not below; Earth's sweetest joy is but disguised woe. Here did she pause, and with a mild aspect

Did towards me those lamping twins direct;

The wonted rays I knew, and thrice essay'd Then discords hoarse were earth's entic- To answer make, thrice falt'ring tongue ing sounds,

All music but a noise which sense confounds.

it stay'd;

And while upon that face I fed my sight, Methought she vanish'd up in Titan's light,

This great and burning glass that clears Who gilding with his rays each hill and

all eyes,

And musters with such glory in the skies; That silver star which with its sober light Makes day oft envy the eye-pleasing night; Those golden letters which so brightly shine


Seem'd to have brought the goldsmith's world again.


In Heaven's great volume, gorgeously Dear wood, and you, sweet solitary place,


The wonders all in sea, in earth, in air, Be but dark pictures of that sovereign Fair;

Where from the vulgar I estranged live, Contented more with what your shades

me give,

Than if I had what Thetis doth embrace;

Be tongues, which still thus cry unto your What snaky eye grown jealous of my peace,


(Could ye amidst worlds' cataracts them hear),

Now from your silent horrors would me


When sun, progressing in his glorious race From fading things, fond wights, lift your Beyond the Twins, doth near our pole desire,

And in our beauty, his, us made, admire:
If we seem fair, O think how fair is he
Of whose fair fairness shadows, steps, we

No shadow can compare it with the face, No step with that dear foot that did it trace;

Your souls immortal are, then place them hence,

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1605 (?)-1680 (?)

FRANCIS SEMPLE is the third in THE BLYTHSOME BRIDAL. succession of a family of Renfrewshire


lairds, the Semples of Beltrees, as they Fy, let us a' to the bridal,
are collectively known, who cultivated
Scottish poetry of a humorous vein.

The first was Sir James Semple, the
author of the "Packman's Paternoster,"
a satire on Popery. His son, Robert
Semple, revised and enlarged his
father's poem, and also wrote the
well-known "Elegy on the Piper of
Kilbarchan." Francis, the son of Robert,
is perhaps the most lively humourist of
the three. His "Blythsome Brydal"
and "Maggie Lauder" are nowhere
surpassed for that thoroughly Scottish
combination of description, narrative,
dialogue, comic suggestiveness, and
natural simplicity, which go to the
formation of that difficult to define com-
pound known as Scottish humour.
The latter is to be found in almost every
collection of Scottish songs. Little is
known of his history, and the tenor of
it is that he was a Jacobite, and not very
prosperous in life.

His claim to the authorship of the poems here placed to his credit is not an undisputed one, yet the rival claims have few supporters. There existed an earlier poet of the name of Semple, who wrote a poem entitled "The Siege of Edinburgh," but whether he was related to the Semples of Beltrees, or what he was, has not been ascertained.

For there will be lilting there;
For Jock's to be married to Maggie,
The lass wi' the gowden hair.
And there will be langkail and parridge,
And bannocks o' barleymeal;
And there will be good saut herring,
To relish a cog o' good ale.


And there will be Sawney the sutor,

And Will wi' the meikle mou';
And there will be Tam the blutter,

With Andrew the tinkler, I trow;
And there will be bow-legged Robie,

With thumbless Katy's goodman ;
And there will be blue-cheeked Dobie,
And Laurie, the laird o' the land.


And there will be sow-libber Patie,
Capper-nosed Francie and Gibbie,
And plooky-fac'd Wat i' the mill,

That wins in the how of the hill:
And there will be Alaster Sibbie
Wha in wi' black Bessie did mool,
Wi' snivelling Lilly, and Tibby,

The lass that stands aft on the stool.


And Madge that was buckled to Steenie,
And coft him gray breeks to his a-
Who after was hangit for stealing-

Great mercy it happened na warse!
And there will be gleed Geordy Janners,
And Kirsh wi' the lily-white leg,
Wha gade to the south for manners,

And danced the daft dance in Mons


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Balow, my boy, lye still and sleep!
It grieves me sore to hear thee weep!
If thou'lt be silent, I'll be glad,
Thy mourning makes my heart full sad.
Balow, my boy, thy mother's joy,
Thy father bred me great annoy,

Balow, my boy, lye still and sleep,
It grieves me sore to hear thee weep.

Balow, my darling, sleep awhile,
And when thou wakest sweetly smile;
But smile not as thy father did

To cozen maids; nay, God forbid !

For in thine eye his look I see,
The tempting look that ruin'd me.
Balow, my boy, &c.

When he began to court my love,
And with his sugar'd words to move,
His fainings false and flattering cheer,
In time to me did not appear;
But now I see that cruel he
Cares neither for his babe nor me.
Balow, my boy, &c.

Farewell, farewell, thou falsest youth
That ever kiss'd a woman's mouth.
I wish all maids be warn'd by me,
Never to trust thy courtesie;

For if they do, oh! cruel thou
Wilt [them] abuse and care not how !
Balow, my boy, &c.

I was too cred'lous at the first,
To yield thee all a maiden durst.
Thou swore for ever true to prove,
Thy faith unchanged, unchanged thy

But quick as thought the change is wrought,

Thy love no more, thy promise nought. Balow, my boy, &c.

I wish I were a maid again!
From young men's flattery I'd refain ;
For now unto my grief I find,
They all are perjured and unkind.
Balow, my child, thy mother mild,
Shall wail, as from all bliss exiled.
Balow, my boy, &c.

Balow, my boy, weep not for me,
Whose greatest grief's for wronging thee.
Nor pity her deserved smart,

Who can blame none but her fond heart;
For too soon trusting latest finds,
With fariest tongues are falsest minds.
Balow, my boy, &c.

Balow, my boy, thy father's fled,
When he the thriftless son had played;
Of vows and oaths forgetful, he
Preferred the wars to thee and me.
But now, perhaps, thy curse and mine
Make him eat acorns with the swine.
Balow, my boy, &c.

But curse not him; perhaps now he,
Stung with remorse, is blessing thee:
Perhaps at death; for who can tell
Whether the Judge of heaven and hell,
By some proud foe has struck the blow,
And laid the dear deceiver low?
Balow, my boy, &c.

I wish I were into the bounds,
Where he lyes smothered in his wounds,
Repeating, as he pants for air,

My name, whom once he called his fair;
No woman's yet so fiercely set
Bu she'll forgive, though not forget.
Balow, my boy, &c.

Balow, my boy, I'll weep for thee;
Too soon, alake, thou'lt weep for me :
Thy griefs are growing to a sum,
God grant thee patience when they come;
Born to sustain thy mother's shame,
A hapless fate, a bastard's name.
Balow, my boy, &c.


I wish I were where Helen lies,
For night and day on me she cries,
I wish I were where Helen lies,
On fair Kirkconnell lee.

Curst be the hand that shot the shot, Likewise the gun that ga'e the crack, Into my arms Burd Helen lap,

And died for love o' me.

Oh, think na ye my heart was sair,
To see her lie and speak nae mair!
There did she swoon wi' mickle care,
On fair Kirkconnell lee.

I loutit down, my sword did draw,
I cuttit him in pieces sma',

I cuttit him in pieces sma',
On fair Kirkconnell lee.

Oh, Helen fair, without compare,
I'll mak a garland o' thy hair,
Aud wear the same for evermair,
Until the day I dee.

I wish my grave were growing green,
A winding-sheet put ower my een,
And I in Helen's arms lying,

On fair Kirkconnell lee.

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