The song entitled 'The Lover's Blessing' is a good contrast to

this gentle voluptuousness

'The wild hawk sat the dark night long

Beside the window of Melan,

And ever and anon her song

Thus sharp and clear began:

"Rise up, it is a noble feast,

Thine own true-love to-night doth wed;

Rise, taste the cup, or send at least
Thy blessing to the bed."

Melan made answer: 66

By my word,

To drink her wine I will not go;
But thou shalt bear my blessing, bird,
Since thou wilt have it so:

May for each drop this night she drains
Ten thousand tears hereafter flow!
Be child-birth pains the only pains

That bed shall never know!"'-p. 6s.

The last of these compositions which we shall quote, will remind the readers of Goethe of the commencement of Hassan Aga:'

'Was it a vine, with clusters white,

That clung round Buda's stateliest tower?
O no; it was a lady bright,

That hung upon an armed knight,

It was their parting hour.

They had been wedded in their youth;
Together they had spent their bloom;
That hearts so long entwined in truth
Asunder should be torn in ruth,
It was a cruel doom.

"Go forth," she said; "pursue thy way;

But some fair garden shouldst thou see,
Alone among the arbours stray,
And pluck a rose-leaf from the spray,
The freshest there may be ;

Unclasp thy mail, when none is by,

That leaf upon thy breast to lay,
How soon 't will wither, fade, and die,
Observe-for that poor leaf am I,
From thee, my stem, away."
"And thou, my soul," the soldier said,
"When I am wandering faint and far,
Go thou to our own greenwood shade,
Where I the marble fountain made,
And placed the golden jar.

VOL. XXXV. NO. LXIX.

G

At

At noon I filled my jar with wine,
And dropp'd therein a ball of snow,
Lay that on this warm heart of thine,
And while it melts behold me pine

In solitary woe."-pp. 82, 83.

We hope the use we have made of this Minstrelsy' may lead to its publication, and think a larger appendix of notes and illustrations ought to accompany the verses. Some of the minor songs of the Servians have been very prettily translated in a late number of a contemporary journal,* and from that quarter also we may look for further exertions on a field which is wide enough to employ, and rich enough to reward, many labourers.-A gentleman well qualified for such a task is, we understand, preparing for the press an Irish Minstrelsy; which, by the way, Mr. Moore should have given us long ago. If Messrs. Jamieson and Borrow would combine their strength, we might easily have a very popular Scandinavian one; and were these works added to the English library, we should be in a condition to take a more comprehensive view of the popular poetry (strictly so called) of the various nations of Europe during the middle ages, than has hitherto been attainable.

We have left ourselves little room for the Anglo-Norman part of the collection on our table: the specimens it encloses are chiefly valuable as showing the extent to which our French minstrelsy continued in popular request to even a later period than had been supposed by Ritson. They are for the most part rendered from some recent black-letter quartos printed by the Roxburgh Club, and therefore as much dead letter to the public at large as the original MSS.

Passing over the noble ballad on the battle of Evesham,

'Ore est ocys la flur de pris qe taunt savoit de guere,

Ly Quens Mountfort sa dure mort molt en plorra la terre.' &c. which was long ago translated as well as possible, by Sir Walter Scott, the Anglo-Norman strain with which we have been most amused is the Rhyme of the King of England and the Jongleur of Ely.' Its Epigraph is thus given; and having compared it with the original, we are enabled to bear witness that the version is a facsimile.

The jongleur was no lying wighte, but one that shrewdly spake and righte, The King he wisely did advise, and prudently his faults chastise; Before the throne, below the dais, in castell strong, in riche palace, Liars and backbiters are found, their trade doth

Westminster Review.

It is hardly right that this fine version of a fine poem should be allowed to lie buried in 'Ritson's Songs.' Why is it not included in the editions of Sir W. Scott's works?

mickle there abound; There gambling thrives, and letchery, and many trained in trickery, of cunning charm and jugglery, and glamour artes that given backe Black for white and white for blacke. Thenne let us praye sweete Saint Marie, on Engleland to have pity: Her lette us praye to watche us well, and teache them wisdome that rebell, and give our Lord the King counsell, as did the loyal Menestrel.'

We do not fancy that our readers would much thank us for transcribing any part of the loyal minstrel's sage counsel; but the opening of the conversation, which paves the way for his admonition, is diverting in itself, and gives, we have no doubt, a fair notion of the fashionable wit of the times.

Lordings, list, a little space,

And I'll well repay your grace,
For of a minstrel ye shall hear
That sought adventures far and near.
Not far from London, on a day,
As through the fields he took his way,
He met the king and his menée.
Around his neck his tabour hung,
Stamped with gold and richly strung.
"For love now (quoth the king), me tell
Who art thou, Master Menestrel?"-
And he replies, withouten dread,

66

My master's man, Sir King, indeed."
"And who, Sir, may thy master be?"
"In faith, my mistress masters me."
"And who thy mistress ?"-"By my word,
The goodly dame that is my lord."

"What name, I pray thee, dost thou bear?"
"The same that was my sire's whilere."
"What name, then, had this sire of thine ?"

Why, just the same, Lord King, as mine."

"Whence comest thou, Sir Minstrel ?"-"Thence"-
"And whither may'st be going?"—" Hence."

Speak plainly, man,-whence comest thou?"
"Why from our own good town, I trow."
"And what your town, then, Master Quirk ?"
"The town about the Minster-kirk."
"What Minster-kirk, Sir, tell us freely?"
"The Minster, sure, that stands in Ely."
"And where stands Ely ?"-" God us guide-

Where but by the water-side?"

"And how's this water called, I pray?"
"Called! not at all, Sir, by my fay,

The water chooses his own way,

And comes uncalled for every day."-p. 98.

G 2

There

There is some more of this fencing, till the king, apparently willing to change his ground, remarks the comeliness of the Jongleur's steed, and proposes to strike a bargain :

"Come-wilt thou sell thy nag to me?"
"More gladly, faith, than give it thee."
"And for what price, Sir?" quoth the king.
"Why, e'en for that that it will bring."
"For how much shall I have the nag?"
"For just the money I shall bag."
"Is the nag young ?"-" Why, well I ween
His chin hath yet no razor seen."
"Speak truly, is he sharp of sight?"
"More so, I think, by day than night."
"Come, Minstrel, one plain truth declare-
Is't a good eater?"-" That I'll swear;
This chesnut in one single day

Will eat more trusses of fresh hay

Than you, from January to May.'

"And drinks he well?"-" Now God us guard—

He'll drink you, by Saint Leonard,

More water at a single draught

Than ere in a whole week you quaffed."

"Is he a creature of good speed?"

"A pretty question's here, indeed:

Howe'er I spur, howe'er I thump,
The head keeps still before the rump."

"Good friend, now tell me, draws he well?"
"Good Lord, I scorn a lie to tell,

He's ne'er been tried, for aught I know,
Either at harquebuss or bow."

"A trusty beast upon the whole ?"
"I tell the truth, so thrive my soul!-
He's ne'er been charged, at any rate
Since he was mine-bare facts I'll state-
With larceny, or small, or great.”
"Now answer me-a truce to wit-
Is he an easy nag to sit ?"
"Conscience is conscience-I declare
He's nothing to an elbow-chair."
"These words, Sir," quoth the King,
Is the nag sound-completely-wholly?"
"Why no, Lord King, I must confess
He has no claim to holiness;

66

For if he had, your Grace knows well
He'd have some shrine wherein to dwell;

are folly;

In the original, the quibble is between sein and saint.

The

The monks and priests would dress him out
With trappings gay and fine, no doubt,
And all the race of the devout

Would kiss, an't were but his thigh-bone,

And kneel, and sob, and moan, and groan,
Beseeching intercessioun."

After much more foolery of the same kind, the king asks if his feet be hard: :

"Hard say you?-hard enough, my fay,

I wish you had his smith to pay."
"He never shys ?-no coward he?"
"My nag a coward! no, pardie ;
Give him enough of hay and corn,
And he fears nothing night or morn.
I doubt if, since he first drew breath,
He ever spent one thought on death."

"His tongue is good?"-" Yea, by Saint John,
"Twixt this and Lyons on the Rhone
There's not a better:-sure am I,
He never told a single lie;

Nor would a hundred marks in gold
Bribe him one secret to unfold.-
Steal, rob, or slay, you sin secure,
He'll ne'er betray, of that be sure.”
"Knave," quoth the King, "I value not
These ribald turns and quirks a jot."
"I'd rather that you did by half,
For 'tis my trade to make folks laugh ;
And when great princes cross my way

I give them still the best I may."

A new series of conundrums ensues upon this, and the king's patience is at last fairly exhausted with the inveterate jester— "The devil's in thy mother's son,

Still quirking, quibbling, pun on pun!
I never met buffoon like this-

Pray tell us what thy business is ?"

"My business? By our lord the pope,
No harm's in telling that I hope!
I'm one, of many, Sire, whose trade
Is most to eat where least is paid;
As also when a cup's in hand

To sit much liefer than to stand

Especially when dinner's o'er,

;

For then one's heavier than before,

As doctors tell us by their lore.

In short, to have good drink and victual,

And work, an't please you, very little." &c. &c.-p. 104.

The