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 Aufa schrift, das Mädchen am Ufer.

How can they fay that Nature
Has nothing made in vain;
Why then beneath the water
Do hideous rock remain?
No eyes thofe rocks difcover,
That lurk beneath the deep,
To wreck the wand'ring lover
And leave the maid to weep.

All melancholy lying

Thus wail'd fhe for her dear,
Repaid each blaft with fighing,
Each billow with a tear;
when o'er the white waves ftooping,
His floating corps fhe 'fpied;
Then like a lily drooping

She bow'd her head and died.

Gay.

Dr.

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 Romanze zu einem Ganzen zu verbinden, worin auch ein kleines Fragment aus Beaus mont und Fletcher vorkommt. Das Verdienst der Erzählung selbst ist ganz sein, eigen, und, wie Aikin in seinem Effay on Song - Writing, p. 41. bemerkt, war die Schwie ́rigkeit, jene einzelnen alten Ueberreste darein zu verweben, und sie so glücklich in die ächte alte Balladensprache einzuz kleiden, allerdings größer, als die Verfertigung einės ganz neuen Stücks. Wer übrigens von dem himmelweiten Unterschiede des todten Buchstabens vom åchten roetis schen Geifte eine auffallende Probe zu sehen wünscht, der vergleiche Bodmer's Uebersehung dieser Romanze in seinen Altengl. 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 segung vom Herrn Rath Campe im Teutschen Merkur Oktober 1779, und, nebst diesem Original, mit einigen Verbesserungen in Ursinus 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 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

And how fhould 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 stone.

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 ftone!

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 sweetest 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 fweetest showers.
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 fhould flow.

And will be ne'er come again?

Will he ne'er come again?

Ah! no, he is dead and laid in his

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.

grave

Had'ft 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
My love he had the trueft heart:

pray thee fay not fo;

O he was ever true!

And