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

'Twas when the feas were roaring
With hollow blafts of wind,
A damfel lay deploring,

All on a rock reclin'd:
Wide o'er the foaming billows

She caft a wifhful look

Her head was crown'd with willows
That trembled o'er the brook.

Twelve months are gone and over
And nine long tedious days;
Why didft thou, vent'rous, lover,
Why didft thou trust the feas?
Ceafe, ceafe, thou cruel ocean
And let a lover reft;

Ah! what's thy troubled motion
To that within my breaft?

The merchant robb'd of treafure
Views tempefts in despair;
But what's the lofs of treasure
To the lofing of my dear?
Should you fome coaft be laid on
Where gold an diamonds grow,
You'll find a richer maiden,
But none that loves you fo,

How

Dr. Percy.

Dr. Percy.

Es finden sich in Shakspeare's Schauspielen viele zerstreute kleine Bruchstücke alter Balladen, wovon das Ganze verloren gegangen ist. Dr. Percy wagte in seinen Reliques, Vol. I. p. 243, den glücklichen Versuch, einige derselben in folgende schöne Nomanze zu einem Ganzen zu verbinden, worin auch ein kleines Fragment aus Beaus mont und Fletcher vorkommt. Das Verdienst der Erzäh lung selbst ist ganz sein eigen, und, wie Aikin in seinem Effay on Song - Writing, p. 41. bemerkt, war die Schwies rigkeit, jene einzelnen alten Ueberreste darein zu verweben, und sie so glücklich in die ächte alte Balladensprache, einzus kleiden, allerdings größer, als die Verfertigung eines ganz neuen Stücks. Wer übrigens von dem himmelweis ten Unterschiede des todten Buchstabens vom ächten poetis schen Geißte eine auffallende Probe zu sehen wünscht, der vergleiche Bodmer's Uebersegung dieser Romanze in seinen Alrengl. Balladen, B. I. S. 50, mit der vortrefflichen Nachahmung von Bürger, in seinen Gedichten, S. 277: der Bruder Graurock und die Pilgerin. Vom Dr. Percy ist auch die långere Erzählung im Balladenton, The Hermit of Warkworth, wovon man die glückliche Uebers sehung vom Herrn Nath Campe im Teutschen Merkur Oktober 1779, und, nebst diesem Original, mit einigen Verbesserungen in Ursinus Balladen, S. 156 ff. an: 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 Chrift thee fave, thou reverend friar

I pray thee tell to me,

If ever at yon holy fhrine

My true love thou did❜ft fee.

And

1

And how should I know your true love

From many another one?

O by his cockle hat and staff,

And by his fandal fhoon,

But chiefly by his face and mien,
That were fo fair to view;
His flaxen locks that fweetly curl'd,
And eyes of lovely blue.

O lady he's dead and gone!
Lady he's dead and gone!
And at his head a green grafs turf,
And at his heels a ftone.

Within thefe holy cloyfters long
He languifh'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!

O weep not, lady, weep not fo;
Some ghoftly comfort feek:
Let not vain forrow rive thy heart,
Nor tears bedew thy cheek.

O do not, do not, holy friar,
My forrow now reprove;
For I have loft the fweeteft youth,
That e'er won Lady's love,

And now, alas! for thy fad lofs
I'll evermore weep and figh;

Dr. Percy.

For

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

Weep no more, lady, weep no more,
Thy forrow is in vain:

For, violets pluck'd the fweeteft fhowers
Will ne'er make grow again.

Our joys as winged dreams do fly,
Why then fhould forrow laft!
Since grief but aggravates thy lofs,
Grieve not for what is past.

O fay not fo, thou holy friar;
I pray thee, fay not fo:

For fince my true - love died for me,
'Tis meet my tears should flow.

And will he 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 rofe,
The com❜lieft youth was he:

But he is dead and laid in his grave:
Alas! and woe is me;

Sigh no more, lady, figh no more,

Men were deceivers ever:

One foot on fea and one on land,
To one thing constant never.

Had'st thou been fond, he had been falfe,
And left thee fad and heavy;

For young men ever were fickle found,
Since fummer trees were leafy.

Now fay not fo, thou holy friar,
I pray thee fay not fo;

My love he had the trueft heart:
O he was ever true!

And