THE THIEF AND CORDELIER.

A BALLAD.

To the Tune of King John and the Abbot of Canterbury.

WHO has e'er been at Paris, must needs know the The fatal retreat of th' unfortunate brave,

[Greve,

Where honour and justice most oddly contribute
To ease heroes' pains by a halter and gibbet,
Derry down, down, bey derry down.

There death breaks the shackles which force had put on,
And the hangman completes what the judge but begun;
There the Squire of the Pad and the Knight of the Post
Find their pains no more baulk'd and their hopes no
Derry down, &c.
[more crost,

Great claims are there made, and great secrets are

known,

And the king, and the law, and the thief, has his own; But my hearers cry out, What a deuce dost thou ail?

Cut off thy reflections, and give us thy tale,

Derry downs &c.

'Twas there then, in civil respect to harsh laws, And for want of false witness to back a bad cause,

A Norman, tho' late, was oblig'd to appear,

And who to assist but a grave Cordelier?

Derry down, &c.

The Squire, whose good grace was to open the scene, Seem'd not in great haste that the show should begin, Now fitted the halter, now travers'd the cart,

And often took leave, but was loath to depart,

Derry down, &c.

What frightens you thus, my good Son? says the priest; You murder'd, are sorry, and have been confest.

O Father! my sorrow will scarce save my bacon, For 'twas not that I murder'd, but that I was taken, Derry down, &c.

Pough! pr'ythee ne'er trouble thy head with such fancies;

Rely on the aid you shall have from Saint Francis ;
If the money you promis'd be brought to the chest,
You have only to die; let the Church do the rest,
Derry down, &c.

And what will folks say, if they see you afraid?
It reflects upon me as I knew not my trade:
Courage, friend, to-day is your period of sorrow,
And things will go better, believe me, to-morrow,
Derry down, &c.

[night.

To-morrow, our hero reply'd, in a fright,
He that's hang'd before noon ought to think of to-
Tell your beads, quoth the priest, and be fairly truss'd
For you surely to-night shall in Paradise sup. [up,
Derry down, &c.

Alas! quoth the Squire, howe'er sumptuous the treat,
Parbleu! I shall have little stomach to eat;

I should therefore esteem it great favour and grace
Would you be so kind as to go in my place,

Derry down, &c.

That I would, quoth the father, and thank you to boot,

But our actions, you know, with our duty must suit:
The feast I propos'd to you I cannot taste,

For this night, by our Order, is mark'd for a fast,
Derry down, &c.

Then turning about to the hangman, he said,
Dispatch me, I pr'ythee, this troublesome blade,
For thy cord and my cord both equally tie,
And we live by the gold for which other men die,
Derry down, &c.

A SONG.

In vain you tell your parting love

You wish fair winds may waft him over:

Alas! what winds can happy prove

That bear me far from what I love?

Alas! what dangers on the main
Can equal those that I sustain,
From slighted vows and cold disdain?
Be gentle, and in pity chuse
To wish the wildest tempest loose,
That, thrown again upon the coast
Where first my shipwreck'd heart was lost,
I may once more repeat my pain,
Once more in dying notes complain
Of slighted vows and cold disdain.

SUR LA PRISE DE NAMUR,

PAR LES ARMES DU ROI,
L'ANNE 1692.

PAR MONSIEUR BOILEAU DESPREAUX.

QUELLE docte et sainte yvresse
Aujourd'hui me fait la loi ?
Chastes nymphes du Permesse,
N'est-ce pas vous que je voi?
Accourez, troupe sçavante:
Des sons que ma lyre enfante;
Ces arbres sont réjouis:
Marquez en bien la cadence:
Et vous, vents, faites silence:
Je vais parler de Louis.

II.

Dans ses chansons immortelles,
Comme un aigle audacieux,
Pindare étendant ses aisles,
Fuit loin des vulgaires yeux.
Mais, ô ma fidele lyre,
Si, dans l'ardeur qui m' inspire,

Tu peux suivre mes transports;
Les chènes de monts de Thrace
N'ont rien oui, que n'efface

La douceur de tes accords.

On the taking of

NAMUR BY THE KING OF GREAT BRITAIN, 1695.

Dulce est desipere in loco.

1. AND II.

Some folks are drunk, yet do not know it?

So might not Bacchus give you law? Was it a muse, O lofty poet,

Or virgin of Saint Cyr, you saw ?

Why all this fury? what's the matter,

That oaks must come from Thrace to dance?
Must stupid stocks be taught to flatter?

And is there no such wood in France?
Why must the winds all hold their tongue ?
If they a little breath should raise,
Would that have spoil'd the poet's song,
Or puff'd away the monarch's praise ?

Pindar, that eagle, mounts the skies,
While Virtue leads the noble way;
Too like a vulture Boileau flies,

Where sordid int'rest shews the prey.
When once the poet's honour ceases,

From reason far his transports rove; And Boileau, for eight hundred pieces, Makes Louis take the wall of Jove. Volume I.

K