Speke boldlie, manne," sayd brave Syr Charles, Christ's vicarr only knowes ne synne, "Whatte says the traytour kynge?" "I greeve to telle: before yonne sonne Does fromme the welkinn flye, Hee hath uppon hys honour sworne Thatt thou shalt surelie die." "We all must die," quod brave Syr Charles, "Of thatte I'm not affearde; Whatte bootes to lyve a little space? Thanke Jesu, I'm prepared: "Butt telle thye kynge, for myne hee's not, I'de sooner die to-daie. Thanne lyve hys slave, as manie are, Then Canterlone hee dydd goe out, "Canynge, awaie! By Godde ynne heaven Thatt dydd mee being gyve I wylle nott taste a bitt of breade By Marie, and alle seinctes ynne heaven, Wyth herte brymm-fulle of gnawynge grief, And sat hymm downe uponne a stoole, Wee all must die," quod brave Syr Charles; Whatte bootes ytte howe or whenne; Dethe ys the sure, the certaine fate Of all wee mortall menne. "Say why, my friende, thie honest soul Quod godlie Canynge, "I doe weepe, And leave thy sonnes and helpless wyfe; "Thenne drie the tears thatt out thyne eye "Whan through the tyrant's welcome means I shall resigne my lyfe, The Godde I serve wylle soone provyde "Before I sawe the lyghtsome sunne, Shall mortall manne repyne or grudge "Howe oft ynne battaile have I stoode, "Howe dydd I knowe thatt every darte, Myghte nott fynde passage toe my harte, "And shall I nowe, forr feere of dethe, "Ah, goddelyke Henry! Godde forefende, "My honest friende, my faulte has beene And thatt I no tyme-server am, My dethe wylle soone convynce. "Ynne Londonne citye was I borne, "I make no doubte butt hee ys gone, Where soone I hope to goe; Where wee for ever shall bee blest, From oute the reech of woe. 46 Hee taughte mee justice and the laws And eke hee taughte mee howe to knowe Ne lett mye sarvants dryve awaie The hungrie fromm my doore: "And none can saye but alle mye lyfe And summ'd the actyonns of the daie "I have a spouse, goe aske of her I have a kynge, and none can laie "Yone Lent, and onne the holie eve, Whie should I thenne appeare dismay'd Yett ynne the holie book above, There wythe the sarvants of the Lord "Thenne welcome dethe! for lyfe eterne I leave thys mortall lyfe: Farewell vayne worlde, and all that's deare Mye sonnes and lovynge wyfe! "Nowe dethe as welcome to mee comes Nor woulde I even wyshe to lyve, Quod Canynge, ""Tys a goodlie thynge And from thys worlde of peyne and grefe And nowe the belle began to tolle, Syr Charles hee herde the horses feete And just before the officers His lovynge wyfe came ynne, Weepynge unfeigned teers of woe, Wythe loude and dysmalle dynne. "Sweet Florence! nowe I praie forbere, Praie Godde that every Christian soule "Sweet Florence! why these brinie teers? ""Tys butt a journie I shalle goe Untoe the lande of blysse; Thenne Florence, fault'ring ynne her saie, Ah, sweete Syr Charles! why wylt thou goe The cruelle axe thatt cuttes thye necke, And nowe the officers camo ynne "I goe to lyfe, and nott to dethe; Truste thou ynne Godde above, Teache them to runne the nobile race Florence! should dethe thee take-adieu ! Thenne Florence raved as anie madde, "Oh, staie mye husbande, lorde, and lyfe !"Syr Charles thenne dropt a teare. "Tyll tyredd oute wythe ravynge loude, Before hym went the council-menne, The Freers of Seincte Augustyne next Alle cladd ynne homelie russett weedes, Ynne diffraunt partes a godlie psaume Moste sweetlie theye dydd chaunt; Behynde theyre backes syx mynstrelles came, Who tuned the strunge bataunt. Thenne fyve-and-twenty archers came ; Bolde as a lyon came Syr Charles, Drawne onne a cloth-ladye sledde. Behynde hym fyve-and-twenty moe Seincte Jameses Freers marched next, Thenne came the maior and eldermenne, Ynne clothe of scarlett deck't; And after them a multitude Of citizenns dydd thronge; The wyndowes were alle fulle of heddes And whenne hee came to the hyghe crosse, "O Thou thatt savest manne fromme synne, To see Charles Bawdin goe alonge To hys most welcom fate Soone as the sledde drewe nyghe enowe, Thatt Edwarde hee myghte heare, The brave Syr Charles hee dydd stande uppe, And thus hys wordes declare : “Thou seest me, Edwarde! traytour vile! Exposed to infamie; Butt bee assured, disloyall manne! Kynge Edwarde's soule rush'd to hys face, “To hym that soe-much-dreaded dethe Beholde the manne! hee spake the truthe, Hee's greater thanne a kynge!" Soe lett hym die!" Duke Richarde sayde; And maye echone oure foes Bende downe theyre neckes to bloudie axe, And nowe the horses gentlie drewe Syr Charles dydd uppe the scaffold goo, Of victorye, bye val'rous chiefs Gayn'd ynne the bloudie warre: And to the people hee dyd saie, For servynge loyally mye kynge, "As longe as Edwarde rules thys lande, Your sonnes and husbandes shalle bee slayne. "You leave your goode and lawfulle kynge, Lyke mee, untoe the true cause stycke, Thenne hee, wyth preestes, uponne hys knees, Thenne kneelynge downe, hee layde hys hedde, And oute the bloude beganne to flowe, The bloudie axe hys bodie fayre Yanto foure partes cutte; One parte dyd rotte onne Kynwulph-hylle, And one from off the castle-gate The other onne Seyncte Powle's goode gate, A dreery spectacle ; Hys hedde was placed onne the hyghe crosse, Thus was the ende of Bawdin's fate : And grante hee maye, wyth Bawdin's soule, Blacke hys cryne as the wyntere nyghte, Gon to hys death-bedde, Al under the wyllowe tree. Swote hys tongue as the throstles note, O! hee lyes bie the wyllowe tree : Gonne to hys death-bedde, Al under the wyllowe tree. Harke, the ravenne flappes hys wynge, Gonne to hys death-bedde, See the whyte moone sheenes onne hie, Gon to hys death-bedde, Al under the wyllowe tree. Heere uponne mie true love's grave, Mie love ys dedde, Al under the wyllowe tree. Wythe mie hondes I'll dente the brieres Gon to hys death-bedde, Al under the wyllowe tree. Comme, wythe acorne-coppe and thorne, Waterre wytches, crownede wythe reytes : I die I comme; mie true love waytes.Thos the damselle spake, and dyed. WILLIAM GIFFORD. WILLIAM GIFFORD, the son of a plumber and glazier, who dissipated his property by intemperance and extravagance, was born at Ashburton, in Devonshire, in April, 1755. He lost his father when only twelve years of age, and in about a year afterward his mother died, leaving himself and an infant brother," without a relation or friend in the world." The latter was sent to the workhouse, and the subject of our memoir was received into the house of his godfather, who put him to school for about three months, but at the end of that period took him home, with the view of employing him as a ploughboy. Being unfitted, however, for this occupation, by an injury on his breast, he was sent to sea in a coasting vessel, in which he remained for nearly a year. "It will be easily conceived," he says in his autobiography, "that my life was a life of hardship. I was not only a ship-boy on the high and giddy mast,' but also in the cabin, where every menial office fell to my lot; yet, if I was restless and discontented, I can safely say it was not so much on account of this, as of my being precluded from all possibility of reading; as my master did not possess, nor do I recollect seeing, during the whole time of my abode with him, a single book of any description, except the Coasting Pilot." farthing on earth, nor a friend to give me one; pen, ink, and paper, therefore, (in despite of the flippant remark of Lord Orford.) were, for the most part, as completely out of my reach as a crown and sceptre. There was, indeed, a resource; but the utmost caution and secrecy were necessary in applying to it. I beat out pieces of leather as smooth as possible, and wrought my problems on them with a blunted awl; for the rest, my memory was tenacious, and I could multiply and divide by it to a great extent." Under the same unfavourable circumstances, he composed and recited to his associates small pieces of poetry, and, being at last invited to repeat them to other circles, little collections were made for him, which, he says, sometimes produced him “as much as sixpence in an evening." The sums which he thus obtained, he devoted to the purchase of pens, paper, &c.; books of geometry, and of the higher branches of algebra; but his master, finding that he had, in some of the verses before mentioned, satirized both himself and his customers, seized upon his books and papers, and prohibited him from again repeating a line of his com positions. At length, in the sixth year of his ap prenticeship, his lamentable doggerel, as he terms it, having reached the ears of Mr. Cookesley, a surgeon, that gentleman set on foot "a subscription for purchasing the remainder of the time of William Gifford, and for enabling him to improve himself in writing and English grammar." He now quitted shoemaking, and entered the school of the Rev. Thomas Smerdon; and in two years and two months from what he calls the day of his emancipation, he had made such progress, that his master declared him to be fit for the uni versity. He was accordingly sent by Mr. Cookesley to Oxford, where he obtained, by the exertions of the same gentleman, the office of Bible reader at Exeter College, of which he was entered a member. Here he pursued his studies with unre He was at length recalled by his godfather, and again put to school, where he made such rapid progress, that in a few months he was qualified to assist his master in any extraordinary emergency; and, although only in his fifteenth year, began to think of turning instructer himself. His plans were, however, treated with contempt by his guardian, who apprenticed him to a shoemaker, at Ashburton, to whom our author went "in sullenness and in silence," and with a perfect hatred of his new occupation. His favourite pursuit at this time was arithmetic, and the manner in which he continued to extend his knowledge of that science is thus related by himself: "I possessed," he observes," but one book in the world; it was a trea-mitting diligence, and had already commenced his tise on algebra, given to me by a young woman, who had found it in a lodging-house. I considered it as a treasure, but it was a treasure locked up; for it supposed the reader to be well acquainted with simple equations, and I knew nothing of the matter. My master's son had purchased Fenning's Introduction: this was precisely what I wanted; but he carefully concealed it from me, and I was indebted to chance alone for stumbling on his hiding-place. I sat up for the greatest part of several nights successively; and, before he sus pected his treatise was discovered, had completely mastered it. I could now enter upon my own: and that carried me pretty far into the science. This was not done without difficulty. I had not a poetical translation of the Satires of Juvenal, when the death of Mr. Cookesley interrupted the progress of the work. A fortunate accident procured him a new patron in Earl Grosvenor, in whose family he for some time resided, and afterward accompanied to the continent his son, Lord Belgrave. On his return to England, he settled in London, and, devoting himself to literary pursuits, published, in 1791, and 1794, successively, his poetical satires, the Baviad, and the Mæviad; the one containing an attack on the drama, and the other an invective against the favourite poets of the day. In 1800, he published his Epistle to Peter Pindar, in which he charged the satirist with blasphemy; and Wolcot accused him of obscenity. This led to |