On the Tombs in Westminster Abbey. Who God doth late and early pray More of his grace than gifts to lend ; With a well-chosen book or friend; -This man is freed from servile bands 347 Sir H. Wotton. CCX. ON THE TOMBS IN WESTMINSTER M ABBEY. ORTALITY, behold and fear What a change of flesh is here! Sleep within these heaps of stones; With the richest royallest seed Since the first man died for sin :' Here the bones of birth have cried 'Though gods they were, as men they died!' Here are sands, ignoble things, Dropt from the ruined sides of kings : Here's a world of pomp and state Buried in dust, once dead by fate. F. Beaumont. CCXI. TIME AND LOVE. HEN I have seen by Time's fell hand defaced Ruin hath taught me thus to ruminate— -This thought is as a death, which cannot choose W. Shakespeare. CCXII. AULD ROBIN GRAY. HEN the sheep are in the fauld, and the kye at hame, And a' the warld to rest are gane, The waes o' my heart fa' in showers frae my e'e, While my gudeman lies sound by me. Young Jamie lo'ed me weel, and sought me for his bride; But saving a croun he had naething else beside : To make the croun a pund, young Jamie gaed to sea ; He hadna been awa' a week but only twa, When my father brak his arm, and the cow was stown awa; My mother she fell sick, and my Jamie at the sea- My father couldna work, and my mother couldna spin ; My heart it said nay; I looked for Jamie back; But the wind it blew high, and the ship it was a wrack; His ship it was a wrack-why didna Jamie dee? Or why do I live to cry, Wae's me? My father urgit sair: my mother didna speak; But she looked in my face, till my heart was like to break. They gi'ed him my hand, but my heart was at the sea; Sae Auld Robin Gray he was gudeman to me. I hadna been a wife a week but only four, O sair did we greet, and muckle did we say ; I gang like a ghaist, and I carena to spin; I darena think on Jamie, for that wad be a sin; But I'll do my best a gude wife to be; For Auld Robin Gray he is kind unto me. Lady Anne Lindsay. CCXIII. BARTHRAM'S DIRGE. HEY shot him on the Nine-Stane Rig, And they left him lying in his blood, They made a bier of the broken bough, A lady came to that lonely bower, She bathed him in the Lady-Well, His wounds so deep and sair; And she plaited a garland for his breast, They rowed him in a lily sheet, And bare him to his earth, And the Gray Friars sung the dead man's mass, As they passed the Chapel-Garth. They buried him at the mirk midnight, When the dew fell cold and still, They dug his grave but a bare foot deep, And they covered him o'er wi' the heather-flower, * Saugh, willow. A Gray Friar stayed upon the grave, Old Ballad. CCXIV. KEITH OF RAVELSTON. HE murmur of the mourning ghost 'Oh, Keith of Ravelston, The sorrows of thy line!' Ravelston, Ravelston, The merry path that leads Ravelston, Ravelston, The stile beneath the tree, The maid that kept her mother's kine, The song that sang she! She sang her song, she kept her kine, When Andrew Keith of Ravelston His henchmen sing, his hawk-bells ring, Oh, Keith of Ravelston, The sorrows of thy line! Year after year, where Andrew came, |