Identifier: gri_33125012902363 (find matches)
Title: The book of British ballads
Year: 1842 (1840s)
Authors: Hall, S. C. (Samuel Carter), 1800-1889
Subjects: Ballads, English
Publisher: London : J. How
Contributing Library: Getty Research Institute
Digitizing Sponsor: Getty Research Institute

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! my daughter!—* * In a ballad, entitled Duncan, printed by Herd, aresome vigorous and beautiful stanzas, which describe themeeting of the lover and the uncle of a lady who has beentaken from her old home:— The rose I pluckt o right is mine, Our hearts together grewLike twa sweet roses on ae stalk j Frae hate to love they flew. He stampt his foot upo the ground, And thus in wrath did say, God strike my saul, if frae this field, We baith in life shall gae. He wavd his hand, the pipers playd, The.targets clatterd roundjAnd now between the meeting faes Was little space of ground. But wha is she that runs sae fast ? Her feet nae stap they find;Sae swiftly rides the milky cloud, Upo the summers wind. Her face a mantle screend afore, She showd of lily hue;Sae frae the grey mist breaks the sun, To drink the morning dew. Alack! my friends ; what sight is this? O stap your rage, she cryd; Whar love with honeyd lips should be, Mak not a breach sae wide. E. Corbould, del J. W. Whimper, sc 21
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AGILTHORN. This ballad is the production of MatthewGregory Lewis ; and our principal motive in introducingit into this collection is to -supply an example of hiscompositions, for its merits are not such as to warrant theselection upon other grounds. His writings, althoughnow nearly forgotten, had, at one period, no inconsider-able influence upon the literature of the age ; the successthat attended his publications induced a host of imitators,and, for awhile, his school may be almost said to haveformed the taste of the country. But the unnatural will bealways the ephemeral; and that which is not based uponTruth, Time will be certain to destroy. With the exception of two or three of his moreromantic ballads—Alonzo the Brave and Fair Imogene, and, perhaps, Osric theLion—the poems of Lewis are as completely consigned to oblivion as if they hadnever been printed; even his vain and useless Romances, which have passedthrough numerous editions, are now seldom read; and are re-published on

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