XIX.

THE LUNATIC LOVER,

MAD SONG THE THIRD,

Is given from an old printed copy in the British Museum, compared with another in the Pepys collection; both in black letter.

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[Black-letter copies of this ballad are to be found in the Bagford, Douce, and Roxburghe collections, as well as in the Pepys. The tune was a favourite one, and several other ballads were sung to it.]

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Grim king of the ghosts, make haste, And bring hither all your train; See how the pale moon does waste, And just now is in the wane. Come, you night-hags, with all your charms, 5 And revelling witches away, And hug me close in your arms; To you my respects I'll pay.

I'll court you, and think you fair, Since love does distract my brain: 10 I'll go, I'll wed the night-mare, And kiss her, and kiss her again: But if she prove peevish and proud, Then, a pise on her love! let her go; I'll seek me a winding shroud, 15 And down to the shades below.

A lunacy sad I endure, Since reason departs away; I call to those hags for a cure As knowing not what I say. 20 The beauty, whom I do adore, Now slights me with scorn and disdain; I never shall see her more; Ah! how shall I bear my pain!

I ramble, and range about 25 To find out my charming saint; While she at my grief does flout, And smiles at my loud complaint. Distraction I see is my doom, Of this I am now too sure; 30 A rival is got in my room, While torments I do endure.

Strange fancies do fill my head, While wandering in despair, I am to the desarts lead, 35 Expecting to find her there. Methinks in a spangled cloud I see her enthroned on high; Then to her I crie aloud, And labour to reach the sky. 40

When thus I have raved awhile, And wearyed myself in vain, I lye on the barren soil, And bitterly do complain. Till slumber hath quieted me, 45 In sorrow I sigh and weep; The clouds are my canopy To cover me while I sleep.

I dream that my charming fair Is then in my rival's bed, 50 Whose tresses of golden hair Are on the fair pillow bespread. Then this doth my passion inflame I start, and no longer can lie: Ah! Sylvia, art thou not to blame 55 To ruin a lover? I cry.

Grim king of the ghosts, be true, And hurry me hence away, My languishing life to you A tribute I freely pay. 60 To the elysian shades I post In hopes to be freed from care. Where many a bleeding ghost Is hovering in the air.

[Illustration]