Page:The muses threnodie (Adamson, 1638).djvu/22
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The first muse
Ai me there's none: And is there none indeed?
Then must yee mourne of force, there's no remeed:
And I, for my part, with you in my turne
Shall keep a dolefull consort whilst ye mourne:
And thus, with echoing voice, shall houle and cry,
Gall, sweetest Gall, what ailed thee to die?
N:ow first my Bowes begin this dolefull song,[1]
No more with clangors let your shafts be flung
In fields abroad, but in my cabine stay,
And help me for to mourn till dying day.
With dust and cobwebs cover all your heads,
And take you to your matins and your beads,
A requiem sing unto that sweetest soul,
Which shines now, sancted, above either pole.
And yee my Clubs, you must no more prepare.[2]
To make you bals flee whistling in the aire,
But hing your heads, and bow your crooked crags,
And dresse you all in sackcloth and in rags,
No more to see the Sun, nor fertile fields,
But closely keep you mourning in your bields,
And for your part the trible to you take,
And when you cry make all your crags to crake,
And shiver when you sing alace for Gall!
Ah if our mourning might thee now recall!
And yee my Loadstones of Lidnochian lakes,[3]
Collected from the loughs, where watrie snakes
Do much abound, take unto you a part,
And mourn for Gall, who lov'd you with his heart:
In this sad dump and melancholick mood
The Burdown yee must bear, not on the flood,
Then must yee mourne of force, there's no remeed:
And I, for my part, with you in my turne
Shall keep a dolefull consort whilst ye mourne:
And thus, with echoing voice, shall houle and cry,
Gall, sweetest Gall, what ailed thee to die?
N:ow first my Bowes begin this dolefull song,[1]
No more with clangors let your shafts be flung
In fields abroad, but in my cabine stay,
And help me for to mourn till dying day.
With dust and cobwebs cover all your heads,
And take you to your matins and your beads,
A requiem sing unto that sweetest soul,
Which shines now, sancted, above either pole.
And yee my Clubs, you must no more prepare.[2]
To make you bals flee whistling in the aire,
But hing your heads, and bow your crooked crags,
And dresse you all in sackcloth and in rags,
No more to see the Sun, nor fertile fields,
But closely keep you mourning in your bields,
And for your part the trible to you take,
And when you cry make all your crags to crake,
And shiver when you sing alace for Gall!
Ah if our mourning might thee now recall!
And yee my Loadstones of Lidnochian lakes,[3]
Collected from the loughs, where watrie snakes
Do much abound, take unto you a part,
And mourn for Gall, who lov'd you with his heart:
In this sad dump and melancholick mood
The Burdown yee must bear, not on the flood,