In Cadiz, as she walk'd along in the street,
Her love and his lady she happen'd to meet;
But in such a garb as she never had seen,-
She look'd like an angel, or beautiful queen.

With sorrowful tears she turn'd her aside:
"My jewel is gone; I shall ne'er be his bride.
Yet, nevertheless, though my hopes are in vain,
I'll never return to old England again.

"But here, in this place, I will now be confin'd;
It will be a comfort and joy to my mind

To see him sometimes, though he thinks not of me,— Since he has a lady of noble degree.'

Now while in the city fair Ruth did reside,
Of a sudden this beautiful lady she died;
And, though he was in the possession of all,
Yet tears from his eyes in abundance did fall.

As he was expressing his piteous moan,

Fair Ruth came unto him, and made herself known. He started to see her, but seemèd not coy,

Said he, "Now my sorrows are mingled with joy."

The time of the mourning he kept it in Spain,
And then he came back to old England again,
With thousands and thousands which he did possess ;
Then glorious and gay was sweet Ruth in her dress.

WHEN Over the seas to fair Sandwich he came,
With Ruth and a number of persons of fame,
Then all did appear most splendid and gay,
As if it had been a great festival day.

Now when they took up with their lodgings, behold,
He stripp'd off his coat of embroidery and gold!
And presently borrow'd a mariner's suit,
That he with her parents might have some dispute,

Before they were sensible he was so great;
And when he came in and knock'd at the gate,
He soon saw her father and mother likewise
Expressing their sorrow, with tears in their eyes.

To them, with obeisance, he modestly said,

66

Pray where is my jewel, that innocent maid,
Whose sweet lovely beauty doth thousands excel?
I fear, by your weeping, that all is not well!"

"No, no! she is gone—she is utterly lost!
We have not heard of her a twelvemonth at most!
Which makes us distracted with sorrow and care,
And drowns us in tears at the point of despair."

"I'm grieved to hear these sad tidings!" he cried.
"Alas! honest young man," her father replied,
"I heartily wish she'd been wedded to you,
For then we this sorrow had never gone through."

Sweet Henry he made them this answer again—
"I am newly come home from the kingdom of Spain;
From whence I have brought me a beautiful bride,
And am to be marri'd to-morrow!" he cried.

"And if you will go to my wedding," said he,
"Both you and your lady right welcome shall be."
They promis'd they would, and accordingly came,
Not thinking to meet with such persons of fame.

All deck'd with their jewels and rubies and pearls,
As equal companions of barons and earls,
Fair Ruth, with her love, was as gay as the rest,
So they in their marriage were happily blest.

Now as they return'd from the church to an inn,
The father and mother of Ruth did begin

Their daughter to know, by a mole they had loath'd,
Although in a garment of gold she was cloth'd.

With transports of joy they flew to the bride,

"O! where hast thou been, sweetest daughter?" they cried,

"Thy tedious absence has grievèd us sore,
As fearing, alas! we should see thee no more.

"Dear parents," said she, "many hazards 1 ran
To fetch home my love, this rare prize of a man :
Receive him with joy; for 'tis very well known,
He seeks not your wealth-he's enough of his own."

Her father repli'd, and he merrily smil'd,

"He's brought home enough, as he's brought home my

child.

A thousand times welcome thou art, I declare,
Whose presence disperses both sorrow and care! "

Full seven long days in feasting they spent ;
The bells in the steeple they merrily went;

And many fair pounds were bestow'd on the poor,-
The like of this wedding was never before !

ANONYMOUS.

CAPTAIN GLEN.1

THERE was a ship and a ship of fame,

Launch'd from the stocks and bound to the main,
With a hundred and fifty brisk young men,

All pick'd and chosen every one.

William Glen was her captain's name;
He was a tall and fine young man,
As good a sailor as went to sea,
And he was bound to New Barbarỳ.
'Twas first of April we set sail,
Blest with a sweet and pleasant gale;
For we were bound to New Barbarỳ
With merchandise and gold in fee.

We had not sail'd one day but two-
One day but two, when our jovial crew
All fell sick but sixty-three,

As he went to New Barbarỳ.

One night the Captain he did dream
There came a voice and said to him—
"Prepare you and your company,
To-morrow night 2 you must with me."

1 This an undoubtedly genuine ballad that was probably monotoned through villages and small towns by "turnpike" sailors about one hundred and forty years ago, and retailed by them at a penny apieceis one of the best material representations of the "Jonah" superstition which is still found in sailing craft, particularly amongst seamen of the Upper Baltic. 2 This summoning on the night before death is a common feature in the morality folk-pieces of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries.

This wak'd the Captain in a fright-
It being third1 watch of the night;
Then for his boatswain 2 he did call
And told his deadly secrets all.

"When I in England did remain
God's holy day I did profane;
In drunkenness I did delight,

Which now my trembling soul doth fright.
"There's one thing more I must rehearse,
Of all things else it is the worse:

A knight I slew in Staffordshire,
All for the love of a lady fair.

"Now this is his ghost, I'm much afraid,
That hath in me such terror made;
Altho' the King hath pardon'd me,
This ghost will be my tragedy."
"Oh, worthy Captain, since 'tis so,
No mortal of it e'er shall know;
So hold the secret in your breast,
And pray to God to give you rest.”
We had not sail'd a league but three—
But three, when raging grew the sea;
There rose a tempest in the skies,
That fill'd us all with dumb surprise.
Our main-mast sprung at break of day,
Which caus'd our rigging to give way;
The seamen were in sore affright
At terrors of that fatal night.

Up then and spake our fore-mast man,3
As he did by the fore-yard stand;
He cried, "O Lord, receive my soul!
And to the deck he did down fall.

1 From four o'clock to eight in the morning. 2 It may seem to be curious that the master should call the boatswain and not the mate; but in old literature we seldom find an instance of brotherly ties between master and mate, and not more often is the thing seen afloat to-day, especially under sail. If the mate and the boatswain are not on comrade-like terms, it is ten to one that the master has a leaning to the latter. 3 In a man-o'-war this would have been the captain of the foretop, a petty officer that was not carried by merchantmen towards the end of the eighteenth century; and it is open to some doubt if he was known a hundred years earlier, to which time certain internal evidences of the ballad seem to say that it belongs.

The sea did wash both fore and aft,
Till scarce a soul on board was left;
Our yards were split, our rigging was tore—
The like was never seen before.

The boatswain then he did declare
The Captain was a murderer,
Which did so anger all the crew,
They up and overboard him threw.
Our treacherous Captain being dead,
Within that hour gone was our dread;
The wind did drop, and calm the sea
As we sailed on to Barbarỳ.

Now, when we reach'd the Spanish shore.
Our sore-tri'd ship for to repair,
The people all were 'maz'd to see
Our dismal case and misery.

So when our ship she was repair'd
To fair England our course was steer'd;
And when we came to London Town,
Our dismal case was there made known.
For many wives had husbands lost,
Whom they lamented, to their cost;
And caus'd them weep full bitterly-
These tidings from New Barbarỳ.
A hundred and fifty brisk young men
Had to our goodly ship belong'd;
And now of all our company
There did remain but sixty-three.

1

Now, seamen all, where'er you be
I pray a warning take by me;
You love your lives, so have a care
Never to sail with a murderer.

'Tis never more that I again
Intend to cross the raging main;
But live in peace in my countrỳ-
And so here ends my tragedy.

ANONYMOUS.

1 "Now . . . where'er you be, I pray a warning take by me": These words, exactly as here, are found in many of the inferior ballads of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, especially in the versestories of young women being betrayed by men who loved awhile, then sailed or rode away.