Ancient Poems, Ballads and Songs of England | Page 8

man would find

Something to say that he might stay behind.
Yet, if ten thousand
arguments they'd use,
The destiny of dying to excuse,
They'll find it
is in vain with me to strive,
For why, I part the dearest friends alive;

Poor parents die, and leave their children small
With nothing to
support them here withal,
But the kind hand of gracious Providence,

Who is their father, friend, and sole defence.
Though I have held
you long in disrepute,
Yet after all here with a sharp salute
I'll put a
period to your days and years,
Causing your eyes to flow with dying
tears.
RICH MAN.
[Then with a groan he made this sad complaint]:
My heart is dying,
and my spirits faint;
To my close chamber let me be conveyed;

Farewell, false world, for thou hast me betrayed.
Would I had never
wronged the fatherless,
Nor mourning widows when in sad distress;

Would I had ne'er been guilty of that sin,
Would I had never
known what gold had been;
For by the same my heart was drawn
away
To search for gold: but now this very day,
I find it is but like
a slender reed,
Which fails me most when most I stand in need;
For,
woe is me! the time is come at last,
Now I am on a bed of sorrow cast,

Where in lamenting tears I weeping lie,
Because my sins make me
afraid to die:
Oh! Death, be pleased to spare me yet awhile,
That I
to God myself may reconcile,
For true repentance some small time
allow;
I never feared a future state till now!
My bags of gold and
land I'd freely give,

For to obtain the favour here to live,
Until I
have a sure foundation laid.
Let me not die before my peace be made!

DEATH.
Thou hast not many minutes here to stay,
Lift up your heart to God
without delay,
Implore his pardon now for what is past,
Who knows
but He may save your soul at last?
RICH MAN.
I'll water now with tears my dying bed,
Before the Lord my sad
complaint I'll spread,
And if He will vouchsafe to pardon me,
To
die and leave this world I could be free.
False world! false world,
farewell! farewell! adieu!
I find, I find, there is no trust in you!
For
when upon a dying bed we lie,
Your gilded baits are nought but
misery.
My youthful son and loving daughter dear,
Take warning
by your dying father here;
Let not the world deceive you at this rate,

For fear a sad repentance comes too late.
Sweet babes, I little
thought the other day,
I should so suddenly be snatched away
By
Death, and leave you weeping here behind;
But life's a most uncertain
thing, I find.
When in the grave my head is lain full low,
Pray let
not folly prove your overthrow;
Serve ye the Lord, obey his holy will,

That he may have a blessing for you still.
[Having saluted them, he
turned aside,
These were the very words before he died]:
A painful life I ready am to leave,
Wherefore, in mercy, Lord, my
soul receive.
Poem: A DIALOGUE BETWIXT AN EXCISEMAN AND DEATH.
[Transcribed from a copy in the British Museum, printed in London by
J. C[larke]., 1659. The idea of Death being employed to execute a writ,
recalls an epitaph which we remember to have seen in a village
church-yard at the foot of the Wrekin, in Shropshire, commencing
thus:-
'The King of Heaven a warrant got,
And sealed it without delay,

And he did give the same to Death,
For him to serve straightway,'

&c.]
Upon a time when Titan's steeds were driven
To drench themselves
beneath the western heaven;
And sable Morpheus had his curtains
spread,
And silent night had laid the world to bed;
'Mongst other
night-birds which did seek for prey,
A blunt exciseman, which
abhorred the day,
Was rambling forth to seek himself a booty

'Mongst merchant's goods which had not paid the duty;
But walking
all alone, Death chanced to meet him,
And in this manner did begin
to greet him.
DEATH.
Stand, who comes here? what means this knave to peep
And skulk
abroad, when honest men should sleep?
Speak, what's thy name? and
quickly tell me this,
Whither thou goest, and what thy business is?
EXCISEMAN.
Whate'er my business is, thou foul-mouthed scold,
I'd have you know
I scorn to be controlled
By any man that lives; much less by thou,

Who blurtest out thou know'st not what, nor how;
I go about my
lawful business; and
I'll make you smart for bidding of me stand.
DEATH.
Imperious coxcomb! is your stomach vexed?
Pray slack your rage,
and hearken what comes next:
I have a writ to take you up; therefore,

To chafe your blood, I bid you stand, once more.
EXCISEMAN.
A writ to take ME up! excuse me, sir,
You do mistake, I am an officer

In public service, for my private wealth;
My business is, if any
seek by stealth
To undermine the state, I do discover
Their
falsehood; therefore hold your hand,--give over.

DEATH.
Nay, fair and soft! 'tis not so quickly done
As you conceive it is: I am
not gone
A jot the sooner for your hasty chat,
Nor bragging