part I

am a poor man, And sometimes scarce muster a shilling, Yet to live upright in the world, Heaven knows I am wondrous willing. Although that my clothes be threadbare, And my calling be simple and poor, Yet will I endeavour myself To keep off the wolf from the door. For this I will make it appear, And prove by experience I can, ’Tis the excellen’st thing in the world To be a plain-dealing man.

And now, to be brief in discourse, In plain terms I’ll tell you my mind; My qualities you shall all know, And to what my humour’s inclined: I hate all dissembling base knaves And pickthanks whoever they be, And for painted-faced drabs, and such like, They shall never get penny of me. For this I will make it appear, And prove by experience I can, ’Tis the excellen’st thing in the world To be a plain-dealing man.

Nor can I abide any tongues That will prattle and prate against reason, About that which doth not concern them; Which thing is no better than treason. Wherefore I’d wish all that do hear me Not to meddle with matters of state, Lest they be in question called for it, And repent them when it is too late. For this I will make it appear, And prove by experience I can, ’Tis the excellen’st thing in the world To be a plain-dealing man.

O fie upon spiteful neighbours, Whose malicious humours are bent, And do practise and strive every day To wrong the poor innocent. By means of such persons as they, There hath many a good mother’s son Been utterly brought to decay, Their wives and their children undone. For this I will make it appear, And prove by experience I can, ’Tis the excellen’st thing in the world To be a plain-dealing man.

O fie upon forsworn knaves, That do no conscience make To swear and forswear themselves At every third word they do speak: So they may get profit and gain, They care not what lies they do tell; Such cursed dissemblers as they Are worse than the devils of hell. For this I will make it appear, And prove by experience I can, ’Tis the excellen’st thing in the world To be a plain-dealing man.

O fie upon greedy bribe takers, ’Tis pity they ever drew breath, For they, like to base caterpillars, Devour up the fruits of the earth. They’re apt to take money with both hands, On one side and also the other, And care not what men they undo, Though it be their own father or brother. Therefore I will make it appear, And show very good reasons I can, ’Tis the excellen’st thing in the world To be a plain-dealing man.

O fie upon cheaters and thieves, That liveth by fraud and deceit; The gallows do for such blades groan, And the hangmen do for their clothes wait. Though poverty be a disgrace, And want is a pitiful grief, ’Tis better to go like a beggar Than to ride in a cart like a thief. For this I will make it appear, And prove by experience I can, ’Tis the excellen’st thing in the world To be a plain-dealing man.

And now let all honest men judge, If such men as I have here named For their wicked and impudent dealings, Deserveth not much to be blamed. And now here, before I conclude, One item to the world I will give, Which may direct some the right way, And teach them the better to live. For now I have made it appear, And many men witness it can, ’Tis the excellen’st thing in the world To be a plain-dealing man.

1. I’ th’ first place I’d wish you beware What company you come in, For those that are wicked themselves May quickly tempt others to sin.

2. If youths be inducèd with wealth, And have plenty of silver and gold, I’d wish them keep something in store, To comfort them when they are old.

3. I have known many young prodigals, Which have wasted their money so fast, That they have been driven in want, And were forcèd to beg at the last.

4. I’d wish all men bear a good conscience, And in all their actions be just; For he’s a false varlet indeed That will not be true to his trust.

And now to conclude my new song, And draw to a perfect conclusion, I have told you what is in my mind, And what is my [firm] resolution. For this I have made it appear, And prove by experience I can, ’Tis the excellen’st thing in the world To be a plain-dealing man.

THE VANITIES OF LIFE.

[THE following verses were copied by John Clare, the Northamptonshire peasant, from a MS. on the fly-leaves of an old book in the possession of a poor man, entitled _The World’s best Wealth_; _a Collection of choice Councils in Verse and Prose_. _Printed for A. Bettesworth_, _at the Red Lion in Paternoster-row_, 1720. They were written in a ‘crabbed, quaint hand, and difficult to decipher.’ Clare remitted the poem (along with the original MS.) to Montgomery, the author of _The World before the Flood_, &c. &c., by whom it was published in the _Sheffield Iris_. Montgomery’s criticism is as follows:—‘Long as the poem appears to the eye, it will abundantly repay the trouble of perusal, being full of condensed and admirable thought, as well as diversified with exuberant imagery, and embellished with peculiar felicity of language: the moral points in the closing couplets of the stanzas are often powerfully enforced.’ Most readers will agree in the justice of these remarks. The poem was, probably, as Clare supposes, written about the commencement of the 18th century; and the unknown author appears to have been deeply imbued with the spirit of the popular devotional writers of the preceding century, as Herbert, Quarles, &c., but seems to have modelled his smoother and more elegant versification after that of the poetic school of his own times.]

‘Vanity of vanities, all is vanity.’—SOLOMON.

WHAT are life’s joys and gains? What pleasures crowd its ways, That man should take such pains To seek them all his days? Sift this untoward strife On which thy mind is bent, See if this chaff of life Is worth the trouble spent.

Is pride thy heart’s desire? Is power thy climbing aim? Is love thy folly’s fire? Is wealth thy restless game? Pride, power, love, wealth and all, Time’s touchstone shall destroy, And, like base coin, prove all Vain substitutes for joy.

Dost think that pride exalts Thyself in other’s eyes, And hides thy folly’s faults, Which reason will despise? Dost strut, and turn, and stride, Like walking weathercocks? The shadow by thy side Becomes thy ape, and mocks.

Dost think that power’s disguise Can make thee mighty seem? It may in folly’s eyes, But not in worth’s esteem: When all that thou canst ask, And all that she can give, Is but a paltry mask Which tyants wear and live.

Go, let thy fancies range And ramble where they may; View power in every change, And what is the display? —The country magistrate, The lowest shade in power, To rulers of the state, The meteors of an hour:—

View all, and mark the end Of every proud extreme, Where flattery turns a friend, And counterfeits esteem; Where worth is aped in show, That doth her name purloin, Like toys of golden glow That’s sold for copper coin.

Ambition’s haughty nod, With fancies may deceive, Nay, tell thee thou’rt a god,— And wilt thou such believe? Go, bid the seas be dry, Go, hold earth like a ball, Or throw her fancies by, For God can do it all.

Dost thou possess the dower Of laws to spare or kill? Call it not heav’nly power When but a tyrant’s will; Know what a God will do, And know thyself a fool, Nor tyrant-like pursue Where He alone should rule.

Dost think, when wealth is won, Thy heart has its desire? Hold ice up to the sun, And wax before the fire; Nor triumph o’er the reign Which they so soon resign; In this world weigh the gain, Insurance safe is thine.

Dost think life’s peace secure In houses and in land? Go, read the fairy lure To twist a cord of sand; Lodge stones upon the sky, Hold water in a sieve, Nor give such tales the lie, And still thine own believe.

Whoso with riches deals, And thinks peace bought and sold, Will find them slippery eels, That slide the firmest hold: Though sweet as sleep with health, Thy lulling luck may be, Pride may o’erstride thy wealth, And check prosperity.

Dost think that beauty’s power, Life’s sweetest pleasure gives? Go, pluck the summer flower, And see how long it lives: Behold, the rays glide on, Along the summer plain, Ere thou canst say, they’re gone,— And measure beauty’s reign.

Look on the brightest eye, Nor teach it to be proud, But view the clearest sky And thou shalt find a cloud; Nor call each face ye meet An angel’s, ‘cause it’s fair, But look beneath your feet, And think of what ye are.

Who thinks that love doth live In beauty’s tempting show, Shall find his hopes ungive, And melt in reason’s thaw; Who thinks that pleasure lies In every fairy bower, Shall oft, to his surprise, Find poison in the flower.

Dost lawless pleasures grasp? Judge not thou deal’st in joy; Its flowers but hide the asp, Thy revels to destroy: Who trusts a harlot’s smile, And by her wiles is led, Plays with a sword the while, Hung dropping o’er his head.

Dost doubt my warning song? Then doubt the sun gives light, Doubt truth to teach thee wrong, And wrong alone as right; And live as lives the knave, Intrigue’s deceiving guest, Be tyrant, or be slave, As suits thy ends the best.

Or pause amid thy toils, For visions won and lost, And count the fancied spoils, If e’er they quit the cost; And if they still possess Thy mind, as worthy things, Pick straws with Bedlam Bess, And call them diamond rings.

Thy folly’s past advice, Thy heart’s already won, Thy fall’s above all price, So go, and be undone; For all who thus prefer The seeming great for small, Shall make wine vinegar, And sweetest honey gall.

Wouldst heed the truths I sing, To profit wherewithal, Clip folly’s wanton wing, And keep her within call: I’ve little else to give, What thou canst easy try, The lesson how to live, Is but to learn to die.

THE LIFE AND AGE OF MAN.

[FROM one of Thackeray’s Catalogues, preserved in the British Museum, it appears that _The Life and Age of Man_ was one of the productions printed by him at the ‘Angel in Duck Lane, London.’ Thackeray’s imprint is found attached to broadsides published between 1672 and 1688, and he probably commenced printing soon after the accession of Charles II. The present reprint, the correctness of which is very questionable, is taken from a modern broadside, the editor not having been fortunate enough to meet with any earlier edition. This old poem is said to have been a great favourite with the father of Robert Burns.]

IN prime of years, when I was young, I took delight in youthful ways, Not knowing then what did belong Unto the pleasures of those days. At seven years old I was a child, And subject then to be beguiled.

At two times seven I went to learn What discipline is taught at school: When good from ill I could discern, I thought myself no more a fool: My parents were contriving than, How I might live when I were man.

At three times seven I waxèd wild, When manhood led me to be bold; I thought myself no more a child, My own conceit it so me told: Then did I venture far and near, To buy delight at price full dear.

At four times seven I take a wife, And leave off all my wanton ways, Thinking thereby perhaps to thrive, And save myself from sad disgrace. So farewell my companions all, For other business doth me call.

At five times seven I must hard strive, What I could gain by mighty skill; But still against the stream I drive, And bowl up stones against the hill; The more I laboured might and main, The more I strove against the stream.

At six times seven all covetise Began to harbour in my breast; My mind still then contriving was How I might gain this worldly wealth; To purchase lands and live on them, So make my children mighty men.

At seven times seven all worldly thought Began to harbour in my brain; Then did I drink a heavy draught Of water of experience plain; There none so ready was as I, To purchase bargains, sell, or buy.

At eight times seven I waxèd old, And took myself unto my rest, Neighbours then sought my counsel bold, And I was held in great request; But age did so abate my strength, That I was forced to yield at length.

At nine times seven take my leave Of former vain delights must I; It then full sorely did me grieve— I fetchèd many a heavy sigh; To rise up early, and sit up late, My former life, I loathe and hate.

At ten times seven my glass is run, And I poor silly man must die; I lookèd up, and saw the sun Had overcome the crystal sky. So now I must this world forsake, Another man my place must take.

Now you may see, as in a glass, The whole estate of mortal men; How they from seven to seven do pass, Until they are threescore and ten; And when their glass is fully run, They must leave off as they begun.

THE YOUNG MAN’S WISH.

[FROM an old copy, without printer’s name; probably one from the Aldermary Church-yard press. Poems in triplets were very popular during the reign of Charles I., and are frequently to be met with during the Interregnum, and the reign of Charles II.]

IF I could but attain my wish, I’d have each day one wholesome dish, Of plain meat, or fowl, or fish.

A glass of port, with good old beer, In winter time a fire burnt clear, Tobacco, pipes, an easy chair.

In some clean town a snug retreat, A little garden ‘fore my gate, With thousand pounds a year estate.

After my house expense was clear, Whatever I could have to spare, The neighbouring poor should freely share.

To keep content and peace through life, I’d have a prudent cleanly wife, Stranger to noise, and eke to strife.

Then I, when blest with such estate, With such a house, and such a mate, Would envy not the worldly great.

Let them for noisy honours try, Let them seek worldly praise, while I Unnoticèd would live and die.

But since dame Fortune’s not thought fit To place me in affluence, yet I’ll be content with what I get.

He’s happiest far whose humble mind, Is unto Providence resigned, And thinketh fortune always kind.

Then I will strive to bound my wish, And take, instead of fowl and fish, Whate’er is thrown into my dish.

Instead of wealth and fortune great, Garden and house and loving mate, I’ll rest content in servile state.

I’ll from each folly strive to fly, Each virtue to attain I’ll try, And live as I would wish to die.

THE MIDNIGHT MESSENGER;

OR, A SUDDEN CALL FROM AN EARTHLY GLORY TO THE COLD GRAVE.

IN a Dialogue between Death and a Rich Man; who, in the midst of all his Wealth, received the tidings of his Last Day, to his unspeakable and sorrowful Lamentation.

To the tune of _Aim not too high_, {24} &c.

[THE following poem, and the two that immediately follow, belong to a class of publications which have always been peculiar favourites with the peasantry, in whose cottages they may be frequently seen, neatly framed and glazed, and suspended from the white-washed walls. They belong to the school of Quarles, and can be traced to the time when that writer was in the height of his popularity. These religious dialogues are numerous, but the majority of them are very namby-pamby productions, and unworthy of a reprint. The modern editions preserve the old form of the broadside of the seventeenth century, and are adorned with rude woodcuts, probably copies of ruder originals—

—‘wooden cuts Strange, and uncouth; dire faces, figures dire, Sharp-kneed, sharp-elbowed, and lean-ankled too, With long and ghostly shanks, forms which once seen, Can never be forgotten!’—WORDSWORTH’S _Excursion_.]

DEATH.

THOU wealthy man of large possessions here, Amounting to some thousand pounds a year, Extorted by oppression from the poor, The time is come that thou shalt be no more; Thy house therefore in order set with speed, And call to mind how you your life do lead. Let true repentance be thy chiefest care, And for another world now, _now_ prepare. For notwithstanding all your heaps of gold, Your lands and lofty buildings manifold, Take notice you must die this very day; And therefore kiss your bags and come away.

RICH MAN.

[He started straight and turned his head aside, Where seeing pale-faced Death, aloud he cried], Lean famished slave! why do you threaten so, Whence come you, pray, and whither must I go?

DEATH.

I come from ranging round the universe, Through courts and kingdoms far and near I pass, Where rich and poor, distressèd, bond and free, Fall soon or late a sacrifice to me. From crownèd kings to captives bound in chains My power reaches, sir; the longest reigns That ever were, I put a period to; And now I’m come in fine to conquer you.

RICH MAN.

I can’t nor won’t believe that you, pale Death, Were sent this day to stop my vital breath, By reason I in perfect health remain, Free from diseases, sorrow, grief, and pain; No heavy heart, nor fainting fits have I, And do you say that I am drawing nigh The latter minute? sure it cannot be; Depart, therefore, you are not sent for me!

DEATH.

Yes, yes, I am, for did you never know, The tender grass and pleasant flowers that grow Perhaps one minute, are the next cut down? And so is man, though famed with high renown. Have you not heard the doleful passing bell Ring out for those that were alive and well The other day, in health and pleasure too, And had as little thoughts of death as you? For let me tell you, when my warrant’s sealed, The sweetest beauty that the earth doth yield At my approach shall turn as pale as lead; ’Tis I that lay them on their dying bed.

I kill with dropsy, phthisic, stone, and gout; But when my raging fevers fly about, I strike the man, perhaps, but over-night, Who hardly lives to see the morning light; I’m sent each hour, like to a nimble page, To infant, hoary heads, and middle age; Time after time I sweep the world quite through; Then it’s in vain to think I’ll favour you.

RICH MAN.

Proud Death, you see what awful sway I bear, For when I frown none of my servants dare Approach my presence, but in corners hide Until I am appeased and pacified. Nay, men of greater rank I keep in awe Nor did I ever fear the force of law, But ever did my enemies subdue, And must I after all submit to you?

DEATH.

’Tis very true, for why thy daring soul, Which never could endure the least control, I’ll thrust thee from this earthly tenement, And thou shalt to another world be sent.

RICH MAN.

What! must I die and leave a vast estate, Which, with my gold, I purchased but of late? Besides what I had many years ago?— What! must my wealth and I be parted so? If you your darts and arrows must let fly, Go search the jails, where mourning debtors lie; Release them from their sorrow, grief, and woe, For I am rich and therefore loth to go.

DEATH.

I’ll search no jails, but the right mark I’ll hit; And though you are unwilling to submit, Yet die you must, no other friend can do,— Prepare yourself to go, I’m come for you. If you had all the world and ten times more, Yet die you must,—there’s millions gone before; The greatest kings on earth yield and obey, And at my feet their crowns and sceptres lay: If crownèd heads and right renownèd peers Die in the prime and blossoms of their years, Can you suppose to gain a longer space? No! I will send you to another place.

RICH MAN.

Oh! stay thy hand and be not so severe, I have a hopeful son and daughter dear, All that I beg is but to let me live That I may them in lawful marriage give: They being young when I am laid in the grave, I fear they will be wronged of what they have: Although of me you will no pity take, Yet spare me for my little infants’ sake.

DEATH.

If such a vain excuse as this might do, It would be long ere mortals would go through The shades of death; for every man would find Something to say that he might stay behind. Yet, if ten thousand arguments they’d use, The destiny of dying to excuse, They’ll find it is in vain with me to strive, For why, I part the dearest friends alive; Poor parents die, and leave their children small With nothing to support them here withal, But the kind hand of gracious Providence, Who is their father, friend, and sole defence. Though I have held you long in disrepute, Yet after all here with a sharp salute I’ll put a period to your days and years, Causing your eyes to flow with dying tears.

RICH MAN.

[Then with a groan he made this sad complaint]: My heart is dying, and my spirits faint; To my close chamber let me be conveyed; Farewell, false world, for thou hast me betrayed. Would I had never wronged the fatherless, Nor mourning widows when in sad distress; Would I had ne’er been guilty of that sin, Would I had never known what gold had been; For by the same my heart was drawn away To search for gold: but now this very day, I find it is but like a slender reed, Which fails me most when most I stand in need; For, woe is me! the time is come at last, Now I am on a bed of sorrow cast, Where in lamenting tears I weeping lie, Because my sins make me afraid to die: Oh! Death, be pleased to spare me yet awhile, That I to God myself may reconcile, For true repentance some small time allow; I never feared a future state till now! My bags of gold and land I’d freely give, For to obtain the favour here to live, Until I have a sure foundation laid. Let me not die before my peace be made!

DEATH.

Thou hast not many minutes here to stay, Lift up your heart to God without delay, Implore his pardon now for what is past, Who knows but He may save your soul at last?

RICH MAN.

I’ll water now with tears my dying bed, Before the Lord my sad complaint I’ll spread, And if He will vouchsafe to pardon me, To die and leave this world I could be free. False world! false world, farewell! farewell! adieu! I find, I find, there is no trust in you! For when upon a dying bed we lie, Your gilded baits are nought but misery. My youthful son and loving daughter dear, Take warning by your dying father here; Let not the world deceive you at this rate, For fear a sad repentance comes too late. Sweet babes, I little thought the other day, I should so suddenly be snatched away By Death, and leave you weeping here behind; But life’s a most uncertain thing, I find. When in the grave my head is lain full low, Pray let not folly prove your overthrow; Serve ye the Lord, obey his holy will, That he may have a blessing for you still. [Having saluted them, he turned aside, These were the very words before he died]:

A painful life I ready am to leave, Wherefore, in mercy, Lord, my soul receive.

A DIALOGUE BETWIXT AN EXCISEMAN AND DEATH.

[TRANSCRIBED from a copy in the British Museum, printed in London by J. C[larke]., 1659. The idea of Death being employed to execute a writ, recalls an epitaph which we remember to have seen in a village church-yard at the foot of the Wrekin, in Shropshire, commencing thus:—

‘The King of Heaven a warrant got, And sealèd it without delay, And he did give the same to Death, For him to serve straightway,’ &c.]

UPON a time when Titan’s steeds were driven To drench themselves beneath the western heaven; And sable Morpheus had his curtains spread, And silent night had laid the world to bed; ’Mongst other night-birds which did seek for prey, A blunt exciseman, which abhorred the day, Was rambling forth to seek himself a booty ’Mongst merchant’s goods which had not paid the duty; But walking all alone, Death chanced to meet him, And in this manner did begin to greet him.

DEATH.

Stand, who comes here? what means this knave to peep And skulk abroad, when honest men should sleep? Speak, what’s thy name? and quickly tell me this, Whither thou goest, and what thy business is?

EXCISEMAN.

Whate’er my business is, thou foul-mouthed scold, I’d have you know I scorn to be controlled By any man that lives; much less by thou, Who blurtest out thou know’st not what, nor how; I go about my lawful business; and I’ll make you smart for bidding of me stand.

DEATH.

Imperious coxcomb! is your stomach vexed? Pray slack your rage, and hearken what comes next: I have a writ to take you up; therefore, To chafe your blood, I bid you stand, once more.

EXCISEMAN.

A writ to take _me_ up! excuse me, sir, You do mistake, I am an officer In public service, for my private wealth; My business is, if any seek by stealth To undermine the state, I do discover Their falsehood; therefore hold your hand,—give over.

DEATH.

Nay, fair and soft! ’tis not so quickly done As you conceive it is: I am not gone A jot the sooner for your hasty chat, Nor bragging language; for I tell you flat ’Tis more than so, though fortune seem to thwart us, Such easy terms I don’t intend shall part us. With this impartial arm I’ll make you feel My fingers first, and with this shaft of steel I’ll peck thy bones! _as thou alive wert hated_, _So dead_, _to dogs thou shalt be segregated_.

EXCISEMAN.

I’d laugh at that; I would thou didst but dare To lay thy fingers on me; I’d not spare To hack thy carcass till my sword was broken, I’d make thee eat the words which thou hast spoken; All men should warning take by thy transgression, How they molested men of my profession. My service to the State is so well known, That should I but complain, they’d quickly own My public grievances; and give me right To cut your ears, before to-morrow night.

DEATH.

Well said, indeed! but bootless all, for I Am well acquainted with thy villany; I know thy office, and thy trade is such, Thy service little, and thy gains are much: Thy brags are many; but ’tis vain to swagger, And think to fight me with thy gilded dagger: _As I abhor thy person_, _place_, _and threat_, So now I’ll bring thee to the judgment-seat.

EXCISEMAN.

The judgment-seat! I must confess that word Doth cut my heart, like any sharpened sword: What! come t’ account! methinks the dreadful sound Of every word doth make a mortal wound, Which sticks not only in my outward skin, But penetrates my very soul within. ’Twas least of all my thoughts that ever Death Would once attempt to stop excisemen’s breath. But since ’tis so, that now I do perceive You are in earnest, then I must relieve Myself another way: come, we’ll be friends; If I have wrongèd thee, I’ll make th’ amends. Let’s join together; I’ll pass my word this night Shall yield us grub, before the morning light. Or otherwise (to mitigate my sorrow), Stay here, I’ll bring you gold enough to-morrow.

DEATH.

To-morrow’s gold I will not have; and thou Shalt have no gold upon to-morrow: now My final writ shall to th’ execution have thee, All earthly treasure cannot help or save thee.

EXCISEMAN.

Then woe is me! ah! how was I befooled! I thought that gold (which answereth all things) could Have stood my friend at any time to bail me! But grief grows great, and now my trust doth fail me. Oh! that my conscience were but clear within, Which now is rackèd with my former sin; With horror I behold my secret stealing, My bribes, oppression, and my graceless dealing; My office-sins, which I had clean forgotten, Will gnaw my soul when all my bones are rotten: I must confess it, very grief doth force me, Dead or alive, both God and man doth curse me. _Let all Excisemen_ hereby warning take, To shun their practice for their conscience sake.

THE MESSENGER OF MORTALITY;

OR LIFE AND DEATH CONTRASTED IN A DIALOGUE BETWIXT DEATH AND A LADY.

[ONE of Charles Lamb’s most beautiful and plaintive poems was suggested by this old dialogue. The tune is given in Chappell’s _Popular Music_, p. 167. In Carey’s _Musical Century_, 1738, it is called the ‘Old tune of _Death and the Lady_.’ The four concluding lines of the present copy of _Death and the Lady_ are found inscribed on tomb-stones in village church-yards in every part of England. They are not contained, however, in the broadside with which our reprint has been carefully collated.]

DEATH.

FAIR lady, lay your costly robes aside, No longer may you glory in your pride; Take leave of all your carnal vain delight, I’m come to summon you away this night!

LADY.

What bold attempt is this? pray let me know From whence you come, and whither I must go? Must I, who am a lady, stoop or bow To such a pale-faced visage? Who art thou?

DEATH.

Do you not know me? well! I tell thee, then, It’s I that conquer all the sons of men! No pitch of honour from my dart is free; My name is Death! have you not heard of me?

LADY.

Yes! I have heard of thee time after time, But being in the glory of my prime, I did not think you would have called so soon. Why must my morning sun go down at noon?

DEATH.

Talk not of noon! you may as well be mute; This is no time at all for to dispute: Your riches, garments, gold, and jewels brave, Houses and lands must all new owners have; Though thy vain heart to riches was inclined, Yet thou must die and leave them all behind.

LADY.

My heart is cold; I tremble at the news; There’s bags of gold, if thou wilt me excuse, And seize on them, and finish thou the strife Of those that are aweary of their life. Are there not many bound in prison strong, In bitter grief of soul have languished long, Who could but find the grave a place of rest, From all the grief in which they are oppressed? Besides, there’s many with a hoary head, And palsy joints, by which their joys are fled; Release thou them whose sorrows are so great, But spare my life to have a longer date.

DEATH.

Though some by age be full of grief and pain, Yet their appointed time they must remain: I come to none before their warrant’s sealed, And when it is, they must submit and yield. I take no bribe, believe me, this is true; Prepare yourself to go; I’m come for you.

LADY.

Death, be not so severe, let me obtain A little longer time to live and reign! Fain would I stay if thou my life will spare; I have a daughter beautiful and fair, I’d live to see her wed whom I adore: Grant me but this and I will ask no more.

DEATH.

This is a slender frivolous excuse; I have you fast, and will not let you loose; Leave her to Providence, for you must go Along with me, whether you will or no; I, Death, command the King to leave his crown, And at my feet he lays his sceptre down! Then if to kings I don’t this favour give, But cut them off, can you expect to live Beyond the limits of your time and space! No! I must send you to another place.

LADY.

You learnèd doctors, now express your skill, And let not Death of me obtain his will; Prepare your cordials, let me comfort find, My gold shall fly like chaff before the wind.

DEATH.

Forbear to call, their skill will never do, They are but mortals here as well as you: I give the fatal wound, my dart is sure, And far beyond the doctor’s skill to cure. How freely can you let your riches fly To purchase life, rather than yield to die! But while you flourish here with all your store, You will not give one penny to the poor; Though in God’s name their suit to you they make, You would not spare one penny for His sake! The Lord beheld wherein you did amiss, And calls you hence to give account for this!

LADY.

Oh! heavy news! must I no longer stay? How shall I stand in the great judgment-day? [Down from her eyes the crystal tears did flow: She said], None knows what I do undergo: Upon my bed of sorrow here I lie; My carnal life makes me afraid to die. My sins, alas! are many, gross and foul, Oh, righteous Lord! have mercy on my soul! And though I do deserve thy righteous frown, Yet pardon, Lord, and pour a blessing down. [Then with a dying sigh her heart did break, And did the pleasures of this world forsake.]

* * * * *

Thus may we see the high and mighty fall, For cruel Death shows no respect at all To any one of high or low degree Great men submit to Death as well as we. Though they are gay, their life is but a span— A lump of clay—so vile a creature’s man. Then happy those whom Christ has made his care, Who die in the Lord, and ever blessèd are. The grave’s the market-place where all men meet, Both rich and poor, as well as small and great. If life were merchandise that gold could buy, The rich would live, the poor alone would die.

ENGLAND’S ALARM;

OR THE PIOUS CHRISTIAN’S SPEEDY CALL TO REPENTANCE

For the many aggravating sins too much practised in our present mournful times: as Pride, Drunkenness, Blasphemous Swearing, together with the Profanation of the Sabbath; concluding with the sin of wantonness and disobedience; that upon our hearty sorrow and forsaking the same the Lord may save us for his mercy’s sake.

[FROM the cluster of ‘ornaments’ alluded to in the ninth verse of the following poem, we are inclined to fix the date about 1653. The present reprint is from an old broadside, without printer’s name or date, in possession of Mr. J. R. Smith.]

YOU sober-minded christians now draw near, Labour to learn these pious lessons here; For by the same you will be taught to know What is the cause of all our grief and woe.

We have a God who sits enthroned above; He sends us many tokens of his love: Yet we, like disobedient children, still Deny to yield submission to His will.

The just command which He upon us lays, We must confess we have ten thousand ways Transgressed; for see how men their sins pursue, As if they did not fear what God could do.

Behold the wretched sinner void of shame, He values not how he blasphemes the name Of that good God who gave him life and breath, And who can strike him with the darts of death!

The very little children which we meet, Amongst the sports and pastimes in the street, We very often hear them curse and swear, Before they’ve learned a word of any prayer.

’Tis much to be lamented, for I fear The same they learn from what they daily hear; Be careful then, and don’t instruct them so, For fear you prove their dismal overthrow.

Both young and old, that dreadful sin forbear; The tongue of man was never made to swear, But to adore and praise the blessèd name, By whom alone our dear salvation came.

Pride is another reigning sin likewise; Let us behold in what a strange disguise Young damsels do appear, both rich and poor; The like was ne’er in any age before.

What artificial ornaments they wear, Black patches, paint, and locks of powdered hair; Likewise in lofty hoops they are arrayed, As if they would correct what God had made.

Yet let ’em know, for all those youthful charms, They must lie down in death’s cold frozen arms! Oh think on this, and raise your thoughts above The sin of pride, which you so dearly love.

Likewise, the wilful sinners that transgress The righteous laws of God by drunkenness, They do abuse the creatures which were sent Purely for man’s refreshing nourishment.

Many diseases doth that sin attend, But what is worst of all, the fatal end: Let not the pleasures of a quaffing bowl Destroy and stupify thy active soul.

Perhaps the jovial drunkard over night, May seem to reap the pleasures of delight, While for his wine he doth in plenty call; But oh! the sting of conscience, after all,

Is like a gnawing worm upon the mind. Then if you would the peace of conscience find, A sober conversation learn with speed, For that’s the sweetest life that man can lead.

Be careful that thou art not drawn away, By foolishness, to break the Sabbath-day; Be constant at the pious house of prayer, That thou mayst learn the christian duties there.

For tell me, wherefore should we carp and care For what we eat and drink, and what we wear; And the meanwhile our fainting souls exclude From that refreshing sweet celestial food?

Yet so it is, we, by experience, find Many young wanton gallants seldom mind The church of God, but scornfully deride That sacred word by which they must be tried.

A tavern, or an alehouse, they adore, And will not come within the church before They’re brought to lodge under a silent tomb, And then who knows how dismal is their doom!

Though for awhile, perhaps, they flourish here, And seem to scorn the very thoughts of fear, Yet when they’re summoned to resign their breath, They can’t outbrave the bitter stroke of death!

Consider this, young gallants, whilst you may, Swift-wingèd time and tide for none will stay; And therefore let it be your christian care, To serve the Lord, and for your death prepare.

There is another crying sin likewise: Behold young gallants cast their wanton eyes On painted harlots, which they often meet At every creek and corner of the street,

By whom they are like dismal captives led To their destruction; grace and fear is fled, Till at the length they find themselves betrayed, And for that sin most sad examples made.

Then, then, perhaps, in bitter tears they’ll cry, With wringing hands, against their company, Which did betray them to that dismal state! Consider this before it is too late.

Likewise, sons and daughters, far and near, Honour your loving friends, and parents dear; Let not your disobedience grieve them so, Nor cause their agèd eyes with tears to flow.

What a heart-breaking sorrow it must be, To dear indulgent parents, when they see Their stubborn children wilfully run on Against the wholesome laws of God and man!

Oh! let these things a deep impression make Upon your hearts, with speed your sins forsake; For, true it is, the Lord will never bless Those children that do wilfully transgress.

Now, to conclude, both young and old I pray, Reform your sinful lives this very day, That God in mercy may his love extend, And bring the nation’s troubles to an end.

SMOKING SPIRITUALIZED.

[THE following old poem was long ascribed, on apparently sufficient grounds, to the Rev. Ralph Erskine, or, as he designated himself, ‘Ralph Erskine, V.D.M.’ The peasantry throughout the north of England always call it ‘Erskine’s song,’ and not only is his name given as the author in numerous chap-books, but in his own volume of _Gospel Sonnets_, from an early copy of which our version is transcribed. The discovery however, by Mr. Collier, of the First Part in a MS. temp. Jac. I., with the initials G. W. affixed to it, has disposed of Erskine’s claim to the honour of the entire authorship. G. W. is supposed to be George Withers; but this is purely conjectural; and it is not at all improbable that G. W. really stands for W. G., as it was a common practice amongst anonymous writers to reverse their initials. The history, then, of the poem, seems to be this: that the First Part, as it is now printed, originally constituted the whole production, being complete in itself; that the Second Part was afterwards added by the Rev. Ralph Erskine; and that both parts came subsequently to be ascribed to him, as his was the only name published in connexion with the song. The Rev. Ralph Erskine was born at Monilaws, Northumberland, on the 15th March, 1685. He was one of the thirty-three children of Ralph Erskine of Shieldfield, a family of repute descended from the ancient house of Marr. He was educated at the college in Edinburgh, obtained his licence to preach in June, 1709, and was ordained, on an unanimous invitation, over the church at Dunfermline in August, 1711. He was twice married: in 1714 to Margaret Dewar, daughter of the Laird of Lassodie, by whom he had five sons and five daughters, all of whom died in the prime of life; and in 1732 to Margaret, daughter of Mr. Simson of Edinburgh, by whom he had four sons, one of whom, with his wife, survived him. He died in November, 1752. Erskine was the author of a great number of _Sermons_; _a Paraphrase on the Canticles_; _Scripture Songs_; _a Treatise on Mental Images_; and _Gospel Sonnets_.

_Smoking Spiritualized_ is, at the present day, a standard publication with modern ballad-printers, but their copies are exceedingly corrupt. Many versions and paraphrases of the song exist. Several are referred to in _Notes and Queries_, and, amongst them, a broadside of the date of 1670, and another dated 1672 (both printed before Erskine was born), presenting different readings of the First Part, or original poem. In both these the burthen, or refrain, differs from that of our copy by the employment of the expression ‘_drink_ tobacco,’ instead of ‘_smoke_ tobacco.’ The former was the ancient term for drawing in the smoke, swallowing it, and emitting it through the nostrils. A correspondent of _Notes and Queries_ says, that the natives of India to this day use the phrase ‘hooka peue,’ to _drink_ the hooka.]

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