"Bold Robin Hood then unto Nottingham came,
Unto Nottingham town came he;

Oh there did he meet with great master sheriff,
And likewise the 'squires all three.

"One boon, one boon,' says jolly Robin,
'One boon I beg on my knee;

That, as for the death of these three 'squires,
Their hangman I may be.'

"Soon granted, soon granted,' says master sheriff,
'Soon granted unto thee;

And thou shalt have all their gay cloathing,
Aye, and all their white money.'

"Oh I will have none of their gay cloathing,
Nor none of their white money,

But I'll have three blasts on my bugle-horn,
That their souls to heaven may flee.'

"Then Robin Hood mounted the gallows so high,
Where he blew loud and shrill,

'Till a hundred and ten of Robin Hood's men
Came marching down the green hill.

"Whose men are these?' says master sheriff,
'Whose men are they?' tell unto me.

'O they are mine, but none of thine,

And are come for the 'squires all three.'

"O take them, O take them,' says great master sheriff, 'O take them along with thee;

For there's never a man in fair Nottingham

Can do the like of thee.'"

Sometimes, indeed, this moral feeling, which is cosmopolitan, sinks down into patriotism and is limited to the country of the bard; sometimes it is bounded by men of his own humble rank in life. But this seldom happens in such poetry, except when war or oppression has made wise men mad, bringing out passions which are narrow and hateful. Notwithstanding the English ballads so commonly scorn the authority of circumstances, they yet betray the purely empirical character of the English nation. With the exception of these overleapings of the conventions of

life, they contain scarce anything which has not its parallel in actual experience. We look in vain for the signs of that more elevated spirituality so noticeable in the popular poetry of some other nations.

The Americans have produced but little poetry in the simple form of ballads; little which circulates among the people, and that little is destined to a speedy and unlamented burial, as we think. Hitherto circumstances have not favoured the production of original literature. With the perpetual exception of speeches and sermons,-which grow out of the daily wants of state and church,—they from their nature must ever be ephemeral. New-England has always been the most literary part of America; but the fathers of New-England had a form of religion—or rather of theology—perhaps the most unpoetic that was ever developed on a scale so extensive. Calvin was no poet he dwelt years long on the Lake of Geneva, preaching within sight of Jura and Mont Blanc, with the most beautiful scenery in the world spread out before him, and yet, so far as we remember, there is not in sermon or letter a single allusion to that wondrous beauty wasted on his cold eye,— not a single figure of speech ever is drawn from the scene before him-the lake, the mountain, or the sky. His followers in America had scarce more inclination to poetry than he. Men who are reflecting on the "five points, discoursing of election, reprobation, and the kindred themes, or inwardly digesting the Assembly's Catechism, would not be likely to write war-songs, or to make ballads. They did well in allowing" the nursery rhymes" to be sung to children; in not suffering "unworthy Barbara Allen" to be wholly forgotten. Still further, their outward circumstances were most unfavourable to the production of popular poetry, songs, and ballads amongst the people. They were struggling against poverty, against the wilderness, the wild beasts, and savage men,-not to mention the difficulties which came from the other side of the water. Thus stood the fathers of New-England. On the one side was starvation, and destruction on the other; and the Indians lying in wait and ready to hasten the advance of both. Under such circumstances few men would incline to sing anything very secular, or æsthetic. Besides, to the Puritan 66 common things " had a certain savour of uncleanness

about them, and were thought scarce worthy of being sung. Would a man be merry, he might indeed sing, for there was a scriptural argument for his singing; but it must be -psalms. New-England psalmody is a proverb amongst nations. We speak not of the melodies, so long-drawn and so nasal, but of the substantial words which endure while the volatile melodies have long ago been hushed into expressive silence. We give a verse from an old American version of "the Psalms of David," assuring our readers that it is no invention of ours, but an undoubted original. "The race is not to them that do the swiftest run, Nor the battell, To the peopel,

That carries the longest gun."

Of psalm-singing there was no lack in New-England. But that was not quite enough even for the Puritans. The natural heart of man wanted something a little more epic

-some narrative of heroic events in a form slightly poetical, with a tinge of moral feeling, and a minute specification of time, place, person, and all particulars thereto belonging. This want was supplied-so far as we can learn -by the public prayers so abundantly made by the Puritans. They were as narrative as the popular ballads, about as long-winded, equally garrulous, it is said; only the rhythmic element was wanting; and that was supplied, we suppose, by the intonation of the orator, or by the repetition of particular phrases-as a sort of refrain, or "burden." Few men esteem the founders of New-England more than we, but we honour them for what they were, not for what they were not-not so much for their poetry as for their masculine character and unshrinking faith in God.

We have seen many of the early American ballads, but few of any merit. New-England ran to theology, politics, and practical life; not to lyric poetry. Even war, which forced such music from the Greeks and the Spaniards, extorted but little song from the stern men of America,and that little poor. Of the ballads which belong to the Revolutionary period, there are few which are worth perusing. We insert a portion of one, which seems to us the best. Its date is obvious.

"While I relate my story, Americans give ear;
Of Britain's fading glory you presently shall hear,
I'll give you a true relation, attend to what I say,
Concerning the taxation of North America.

"The cruel lords of Britain, who glory in their shame,
The project they have lit on they joyfully proclaim;
"Tis what they're striving after, our rights to take away,
And rob us of our charter in North America.

"There are two mighty speakers, who rule in Parliament, Who always have been seeking some mischief to invent, 'Twas North, and Bute, his father, this horrid plan did lay,

A mighty tax to gather in North America.

"He search'd the gloomy regions of the infernal pit,
To find among those legions one who excell'd in wit,
To ask of him assistance, or tell them how they may
Subdue without assistance this North America.

"Old Satan, the arch traitor, resolved a voyage to take,
Who rules sole navigator upon the burning lake;
For the Britannic ocean he launches far away,
To land he had no notion in North America.

"He takes his seat in Britain, it was his soul's intent,
Great George's throne to sit on, and rule the Parliament,
His comrades were pursuing a diabolic way,
For to complete the ruin of North America.

"He tried the art of magic to bring his schemes about,
At length the gloomy project he artfully found out;
The plan was long indulged in a clandestine way,
But lately was divulged in North America.

"These subtle arch-combiners address'd the British court,
All three were undersigners of this obscene report—
There is a pleasant landscape that lieth far away,
Beyond the wide Atlantic in North America.

"There is a wealthy people, who sojourn in that land; Their churches all with steeples, most delicately stand; Their houses, like the gilly, are painted red and gay; They flourish like the lily in North America.

"Their land with milk and honey continually doth flow, The want of food or money they seldom ever know : They heap up golden treasure, they have no debts to pay, They spend their time in pleasure in North America.

"On turkeys, fowls, and fishes most frequently they dine, With gold and silver dishes their tables always shine, They crown their feasts with butter, they eat and rise to play,

In silks their ladies flutter in North America.

"With gold and silver laces, they do themselves adorn, The rubies deck their faces, refulgent as the morn! Wine sparkles in their glasses, they spend each happy day

In merriment and dances, in North America.

"Let not our suit affront you, when we address your throne,

O king, this wealthy country and subjects are your own, And you their rightful sovereign, they truly must obey, You have a right to govern this North America.

"O king, you've heard the sequel of what we now subscribe?

Is it not just and equal to tax this wealthy tribe ?
The question being asked, his majesty did say,
My subjects shall be taxed in North America.

"Invested with a warrant, my publicans shall go,
The tenth of all their current they surely shall bestow,
If they indulge rebellion, or from my precepts stray,
I'll send my war battalion to North America.

"I'll rally all my forces by water and by land,
My light dragoons and horses shall go at my command,
I'll burn both town and city, with smoke becloud the day,
I'll show no human pity for North America.

"Go on, my hearty soldiers, you need not fear of illThere's Hutchinson and Rogers, their functions will fulfil

They tell such ample stories, believe them sure we may, That one half of them are Tories in North America.