And it disclose

UNKNOWN.

[Before 1649.]

EDOM O' GORDON.

It fell about the Martinmas,
When the wind blew shrill and cauld,
Said Edom o' Gordon to his men,

"We maun draw to a hauld.

"And whatna hauld sall we draw to, My merry men and me?

We will gae to the house of the Rodes, To see that fair ladye."

The lady stood on her castle wa', Beheld baith dale and down;

When I have done

I get me gone,

And leave them scolding, ho, ho,

ho!

Came riding towards the town.

"In days when our King Robert reigned, His breeches cost but half a crown; He said they were a groat too dear,

And ca'd the tailor thief and loun.
He was the king that wore the crown,
And thou the man of low degree:
It's pride puts a' the country down,
Sae take thy auld cloak about thee!"

"O Bell, my wife, why dost thou flout?
Now is now, and then was then.
Seek anywhere the world throughout,
Thou ken'st not clowns from gentle-

Then by there came twa gentlemen
At twelve o'clock at night;
And they could neither see house nor
hall,

Nor coal nor candle light.

And first they ate the white puddings, And then they ate the black; Though muckle thought the gudewife to hersel',

Yet ne'er a word she spak'.

Then said the one unto the other,

"Here, man, tak' ye my knife!

hands,

THOMAS HEYWOOD.

[About 1640.]

GOOD-MORROW.

PACK clouds away, and welcome day,
With night we banish sorrow;
Sweet air, blow soft; mount, larks, aloft,
To give my love good-morrow.
Wings from the wind to please her mind,
Notes from the lark I 'll borrow;
Bird, prune thy wing; nightingale, sing,
To give my love good-morrow.

Wake from thy nest, robin redbreast;
Sing, birds, in every furrow;
And from each hill let music shrill
Give my fair love good-morrow.
Blackbird and thrush in every bush,
Stare, linnet, and cock-sparrow;
You pretty elves, among yourselves,
Sing my fair love good-morrow.

SEARCH AFTER GOD..

Such fate, erelong, will thee betide, When thou hast handled been awhile,

Like sere flowers to be thrown aside:

And I will sigh, while some will smile, To see thy love for more than one Hath brought thee to be loved by none.

WILLIAM STRODE.

[1600-1644.]

MUSIC.

O LULL me, lull me, charming air!
My senses rock with wonder sweet:
Like snow on wool thy fallings are;
Soft, like a spirit's, are thy feet!

Grief who need fear
That hath an ear?
Down let him lie

And slumbering die,

And change his soul for harmony!

God!

In thine abode.

I said unto the earth, "Speak, art thou