It is worth attention, that the English have more songs and ballads on the subject of madness, than any of their neighbours. Whether there be any truth in the insinuation, that we are more liable to this calamity than other nations, or that our native gloominess hath peculiarly recommended subjects of this cast to our writers; we certainly do not find the same in the printed collections of French, Italian Songs, &c.

Out of a much larger quantity, we have selected half a dozen "Mad Songs" for this work. The three first are originals in their respective kinds; the merit of the three last is chiefly that of imitation. They were written at considerable intervals of time; but we have here grouped them together, that the reader may the better examine their comparative merits. He may consider them as so many trials of skill in a very peculiar subject, as the contest of so many rivals to shoot in the bow of Ulysses. The two first were probably written about the beginning of the last century; the third about the middle of it; the fourth and sixth towards the end; and the fifth within the eighteenth century.

This is given from the Editor's folio MS. compared with two or three old printed copies.-With regard to the author of this old rhapsody, in Walton's Complete Angler, cap. 3. is a song in praise of

angling, which the author says was made at his request by Mr. William Basse, one that has made the choice songs of the Hunter in his Career,' and of 'Tom of Bedlam,'and many others of note," p. 81. See Sir John Hawkins's curious edition, 8vo. 0. that excellent old book.

FORTH from my sad and darksome cell,
Or from the deepe abysse of hell,
Mad Tom is come into the world againe
To see if he can cure his distempered braine.

Feares and cares oppresse my soule;
Harke, howe the angrye Furey's houle!
Pluto laughes, and Proserpine is gladd
To see poore naked Tom of Bedlam madd.

Through the world I wander night and day
To seeke my straggling senses.
In an angry moode I mett old Time,
With his pentarchye of tenses:

10

was written about the beginning of the seventeenth century by the witty bishop Corbet, and is printed from the third edition of his poems, 12mo. 1672, compared with a more ancient copy in the Editor's folio MS.

Am I mad, O noble Festus,

When zeal and godly knowledge

Have put me in hope

To deal with the pope,

As well as the best in the college?

Boldly I preach, hate a cross, hate a surplice,

Mitres, copes, and rochets;

Come hear me pray nine times a day,

And fill your heads with crochets.

In the house of pure Emanuel

I had my education,

Where my friends surmise

I dazel'd my eyes

With the sight of revelation.

Boldly I preach, &c.

They lash'd my four poor quarters;

Whilst this I endure,

Faith makes me sure

I made her stink,

And spill the drink

In her cup of abomination.

To be one of Foxes martyrs.

Boldly I preach, &c.

Boldly I preach, &c.

-was originally sung in one of Tom D'Urfey's comedies of Don Quixote, acted in 1694 and 1696: and probably composed by himself. In the several stanzas, the author represents his pretty Mad-woman as 1. sullenly mad; 2. mirthfully mad: 3. melancholy mad: 4. fantastically mad and 5. stark mad. Both this and Num. XXII. are printed from D'Urfey's "Pills to purge Melancholy," 1719, vol. 1.

FROM rosie bowers, where sleeps the god of love,
Hither ye little wanton cupids fly;
Teach me in soft melodious strains to move

With tender passion my heart's darling joy:
Ah! let the soul of musick tune my voice,
To win dear Strephon, who my soul enjoys.
Or, if more influencing.

Is to be brisk and airy,

With a step and a bound,

A thousand, thousand times I'll dye
Ere thus, thus in vain,-ere thus in vain adore.

I'll charin, like beauty's goddess.

the "

The

-was written by Henry Carey, a celebrated composer of music at the beginning of the eighteenth century, and author of several little Theatrical Entertainments, which the reader may find enumerated in Companion to the Play-house," &c. sprightliness of this songster's fancy could not preserve him from a very melancholy catastrophe, which was effected by his own hand. In his Poems, 4to. Lond. 1729, may be seen another mad song of this author, beginning thus:

"Gods? I can never this endure,
Death alone must be my cure," &c.

I Go to the Elysian shade,

Where sorrow ne'er sball wound me;
Where nothing shall my rest invade,
But joy shall still surround me.

I fly from Celia's cold disdain,
From her disdain I fly;

She is the cause of all my pain,
For her alone I die.

5

The following rhymes, slight and insignificant as they may now seem, had once a more powerful effect than either the Philippics of Demosthenes, or Cicero ; and contributed not a little towards the great revolution in 1688. Let us hear a contemporary writer.

A foolish ballad was made at that time, treating the Papists, and chiefly the Irish, in a very ridiculous manner, which had a burden said to be Irish words, Lero, lero, lilliburlero,' that made an impression on the [king's] army, that cannot be imagined by those that saw it not. The whole army, and at last the people, both in city and country, were singing it perpetually. And perhaps never had so slight a thing so great an effect."-Burnet.

It was written, or at least republished, on the Earl of Tyrconnel's going a second time to Ireland in October 1688. Perhaps it is unnecessary to mention, that General Richard Talbot, newly created Earl of Tyrconnel, had been nominated by King James II. to the lieutenancy of Ireland in 1686, on account of his being a furious papist, who had recommended himself to his bigoted master by his arbitrary treatment of the protestants in the preceding year, when only lieutenant general, and