Ancient Poems, Ballads and Songs of England | Page 6

commenced printing soon after the accession of

Charles II. The present reprint, the correctness of which is very
questionable, is taken from a modern broadside, the editor not having
been fortunate enough to meet with any earlier edition. This old poem
is said to have been a great favourite with the father of Robert Burns.]
In prime of years, when I was young,
I took delight in youthful ways,

Not knowing then what did belong
Unto the pleasures of those
days.
At seven years old I was a child,
And subject then to be
beguiled.
At two times seven I went to learn
What discipline is taught at school:

When good from ill I could discern,
I thought myself no more a
fool:
My parents were contriving than,
How I might live when I
were man.
At three times seven I waxed wild,
When manhood led me to be bold;

I thought myself no more a child,
My own conceit it so me told:

Then did I venture far and near,
To buy delight at price full dear.
At four times seven I take a wife,
And leave off all my wanton ways,

Thinking thereby perhaps to thrive,
And save myself from sad
disgrace.
So farewell my companions all,
For other business doth
me call.
At five times seven I must hard strive,
What I could gain by mighty
skill;
But still against the stream I drive,
And bowl up stones
against the hill;
The more I laboured might and main,
The more I
strove against the stream.
At six times seven all covetise
Began to harbour in my breast;
My
mind still then contriving was
How I might gain this worldly wealth;

To purchase lands and live on them,
So make my children mighty
men.
At seven times seven all worldly thought
Began to harbour in my

brain;
Then did I drink a heavy draught
Of water of experience
plain;
There none so ready was as I,
To purchase bargains, sell, or
buy.
At eight times seven I waxed old,
And took myself unto my rest,

Neighbours then sought my counsel bold,
And I was held in great
request;
But age did so abate my strength,
That I was forced to
yield at length.
At nine times seven take my leave
Of former vain delights must I;

It then full sorely did me grieve -
I fetched many a heavy sigh;
To
rise up early, and sit up late,
My former life, I loathe and hate.
At ten times seven my glass is run,
And I poor silly man must die;
I
looked up, and saw the sun
Had overcome the crystal sky.
So now I
must this world forsake,
Another man my place must take.
Now you may see, as in a glass,
The whole estate of mortal men;

How they from seven to seven do pass,
Until they are threescore and
ten;
And when their glass is fully run,
They must leave off as they
begun.
Poem: THE YOUNG MAN'S WISH.
[From an old copy, without printer's name; probably one from the
Aldermary Church-yard press. Poems in triplets were very popular
during the reign of Charles I., and are frequently to be met with during
the Interregnum, and the reign of Charles II.]
If I could but attain my wish,
I'd have each day one wholesome dish,

Of plain meat, or fowl, or fish.
A glass of port, with good old beer,
In winter time a fire burnt clear,

Tobacco, pipes, an easy chair.
In some clean town a snug retreat,
A little garden 'fore my gate,


With thousand pounds a year estate.
After my house expense was clear,
Whatever I could have to spare,

The neighbouring poor should freely share.
To keep content and peace through life,
I'd have a prudent cleanly
wife,
Stranger to noise, and eke to strife.
Then I, when blest with such estate,
With such a house, and such a
mate,
Would envy not the worldly great.
Let them for noisy honours try,
Let them seek worldly praise, while I

Unnoticed would live and die.
But since dame Fortune's not thought fit
To place me in affluence, yet

I'll be content with what I get.
He's happiest far whose humble mind,
Is unto Providence resigned,

And thinketh fortune always kind.
Then I will strive to bound my wish,
And take, instead of fowl and
fish,
Whate'er is thrown into my dish.
Instead of wealth and fortune great,
Garden and house and loving
mate,
I'll rest content in servile state.
I'll from each folly strive to fly,
Each virtue to attain I'll try,
And
live as I would wish to die.
Poem: THE MIDNIGHT MESSENGER; OR, A SUDDEN CALL
FROM AN EARTHLY GLORY TO THE COLD GRAVE.
In a Dialogue between Death and a Rich Man; who, in the midst of all
his Wealth, received the tidings of his Last Day, to his unspeakable and
sorrowful Lamentation.
To the tune of Aim not too high, {1} &c.

[The following poem, and the two that immediately follow, belong to a
class of publications which have always been peculiar favourites with
the peasantry, in whose cottages they may be frequently seen, neatly
framed and glazed, and suspended from the white-washed walls. They
belong to the school of