Oh ! have you seen a lilly pale,

When beating rains descend? So droop'd the now consuming maid;

Her life now near its end.

By Lucy warn'd, of flattering fwains,

Take heed ye easy fair :
Of vengeance due to broken vows

Ye perjur'd swains beware.

Three times all in the dead of night,

A bell was heard to ring; And at her window, shrieking thrice,

The raven flap'd his wing.

Too well the love-lorn maiden knew,

The solemn boding sound ; And thus in dying words befpoke

The virgins weeping round,

" I hear a voice, you cannot hear,

" Which says I must not stay: “6 I see a hand, you cannot see,

66 Which beckons me away.

“ By a false heart, and broken vows,

« In early youth I die. “ Am I to blame, because his bride

• Is thrice as rich as I?

Ab Colin! give her not thy vows;

66 Vows due to me alone; -« Nor thou, fond maid, receive his kiss,

“ Nor think him all thy own.

" To-morrow in the Church to wed,

" Impatient, both prepare ;, " But know, fond maid, and know, false man

" That Lucy will be there.

" Then bear my corfe: ye comrades, bear,

“ The bridegroom blithe to meet ; “ He in his wedding trim so gay,

" I in my winding sheet."

She spoke, the dy'd-her corse was borne,

The bridegroom blithe to meet ;
He in his wedding trim so gay,
She in her winding theet.

Then what were perjur'd Colin's thoughts

How were those nuptials kept ;
The bride-men flock'd round Lucy dead,

And all the village wept.

Confusion, shame, remorse, despair,

At once his bofom fwell :
The damps of death bedew'd his brow,

He hook, he groan'd, he fell.

From the vain bride, (ah bride no more)

The varying crimson fled,
When, ftretch'd before her rival's corse,

She faw her husband dead.

Then to his Lucy's new-made grave,

Convey'd by trembling fwains,
One mould with her, beneath one fod,
For ever now remains.


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Oft at their grave the constant hind

And plighted maid are feen ; With garlands gay, and true-love knots,

They deck the sacred green.

But, swain forsworn, whoe'er thou art,

This hallow'd spot forbear ; Remember Colin's dreadful fate,

And fear to meet him tbere.

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In a comedy of Fletcher, called The Knight of the burning Peftle, old Merry-Thought anters repeating the following verses :

When it was grown to dark midnight,

And all were fatt asleep,
In came Margaret's grimly ghoft,

And stood at Williani's feet,

This was, probably, the beginning of some ballad, commonly knorun, at the time when that author wrote ; and is all of it, I believe, that is any where to le met with. These lines, naked of ornament and simple as they are, ftruck my fancy: and, bringing frejh into my mind an unhappy adventure, much talked of formerly, gave birth to the following poem ; which was writteni many

years ago.

WAS at the filent, folemn hour,

When night and morning meet ; In glided MARGARET's grimly ghost,

And food at WILLIAM's feet.


Her face was like an April morn,

Clad in a wintry cloud:
And clay-cold was her lilly-hand,

That held ber sable shroud.

So tall the faire face appear,

When youth and years are flown :
Such is the robe that kiogs must wear,

When death has reft their crown.

Her bloom was like a springing flower,

'That fips the filver dew;
The role was budded in her cheek,

Just opening to the view.

But Love, had like the canker-worm,

Consum'd her early prime :
The rose grew pale, and left her check ;

She dy'd before her time.

Awake! she cry'd, thy true Love calls,

Come from her midnight gravé ;
Now let thy Pity hear the maid,

Thy Love refus'd to fave.

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