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Gay.

In seiner tragikomischen Oper, What d'ye call it? ift diese schöne, gefühlvolle kleine Ballade eins der einges webten Lieder. Sie steht auch in Ramseys Tea - table Collection, II. 25. und in mehrern englischen Liedersammlungen; deutsch in den Volksliedern, B. I, S. 77, unter der Aufs schrift, das mádchen am Ufer.

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Gay.

How can they say that Nature

Has nothing made in vain; Why then beneath the water

Do hideous rock remain ? No eyes those rocks discover,

That lurk beneath the deep, To wreck the wand'ring lover

And leave the maid to weep.

All melancholy lying

Thus wailid she for her dear,
Repaid each blast with fighing,

Each billow with a tear;
When o’er the white waves stooping,

His floating corps she 'spied;
Then like a lily drooping,

She bow'd her head and died.

A

Dr.

Dr. Percy.

Dr. Per cy).

Es finden sich in Shakspeare's Schauspielen viele jerstreute kleine Bruchstücke alter Balladen, wovon das

Ganze verloren gegangen ist. Dr. Percy ivagte in seinen ; Reliques, Vol. 1. p. 243, den glücklichen Versuch, einige

derselben in folgende schöne Romanze zu einem Ganzen zu verbinden, worin auch ein kleines Fragment aus Beaus mont und Fletcher vorkommt. Das Verdienst der Erzäh. Yung selbst ist gang rein, eigen, und, wie Hikin in seinem Esay on Song - Writing, p. 41. bemerkt, war die Schwie: rigkeit, jene einzelnen alten Ueberreste darein zu verweben, und fie so glücklich in die Schte alte Balladensprache einzu: Fleiden, allerdings grofer, als die Werfertigung eines ganz neuen Stůcks. Wer übrigens von dem himmelweis ten Unterschiede des todten Buchstabens vom achten roetis fchen Geifte eine auffallende Probe zu sehen wünscht, der vergleiche Bodmer's Uebersekung dieser Romanje in seinen Altengl. Balladen, B. I. S. 50, mit der vortrefflichen Nachahmung von Bürger, in seinen Gedichten, S. 277: der Bruder Graurocť und die Pilgerin. Vom Dr. Percy ist auch die langere Erzählung im Balladenton, The Hermit of Warkworth, wovon man die glückliche Uebers feßung vom Herrn Rath Campe im Teutschen Mierkur Oktober 1779, und, nebft diesem Original, mit einigen Verbesserungen in Urfinus Balladen, S. 156 ff. ans trifft.

It
was a friar of orders

gray,
Walk'd forth to tell his beads;
And he met with a lady fair,

Clad in a pilgrim's weeds.
Now Christ thee fave, thou reverend friar
I
pray

thee tell to me,
If ever at yon holy shrine

My true love thou didst see.

And

Dr. Percy.

And how should I know your true love

From many another one?
O by his cockle hat and staff,

And by his fandal shoon,
-But chiefly by his face and mien,

That were so fair to view;
His flaxen locks that sweetly curld,

And eyes of lovely blue.
O lady he's dead and gone!

Lady he's dead and gone!
And at his head a green grass turf,

And at his heels a stone.

Within these holy cloysters long

He languish'd, and he died,
Lamenting of a lady's love,

And plaining of her pride.
Here bore him barefac'd on his bier

Six proper youths and tall,
And
many

a tear bedew'd his grave Within yon kirk-yard wall. And art thou dead, thou gentle youth!

And art thou dead and gone! And did'st thou die for love of me?

Break , cruel heart of stone!
Oweep not, lady, weep not fo;

Some ghostly comfort frek:
Let not vain sorrow rive thy heart,

Nor tears bedew thy cheek.

O do not, do not, holy friar,

My sorrow'now reprove;
For I have lost the sweetest youth,

That e'er won Lady's love,

And now, alas! for thy sad loss

I'll evermore weep and figh;

For

Dr. Percy. For thee I only wish'd to live,

For thee I wish to die.

Weep no more, lady, weep no more,

Thy sorrow is in vain:
For, violets pluck'd the sweetest showers

Will ne'er make grow again.
Our joys as winged dreams do fly,

Why then should forrow last!
Since grief but aggravates thy loss,

Grieve not for what is past.
O fay not so, thou holy friar;

I pray thec, say not so:
For since my true - love died for me,

'Tis meet my tears should now.
And will be ne'er come again?

Will he ne'er come again?
Ah! no, he is dead and laid in his

grave
For ever to remain.

His cheek was redder than the rose,

The coin'liest youth was he:
But he is dead and laid in his grave:
Alas! and woe is me;

Sigh no more, lady, ligh no more,

Men were deceivers ever:
One foot on sea and one on land,

To one thing constant never.
Had't thou been fond, he had been false,

And left thee fad and heavy;
For young men ever were fickle found,

Since summer trees were leafy..
Now fay not so, thou holy friar,
I
pray

thee fay not so;
My love he had the truest heart:

O he was ever true!

And

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