BALLAD. (Poor Peggy lov'd a soldier lad)

Poor Peggy lov'd a soldier lad More, far more, than tongue can tell ye, Yet was her tender bosom sad Whene'er she heard the loud reveilez:

The fifes were screech-owls to her ears, The drums like thunder seem'd to rattle, Ah too prophetic were her fears, They call'd him from her arms to battle:

There wonders he against the foe Perform'd, and was with laurels crown'd, Vain pomp! for soon death laid him low, On the cold ground.

Her heart all love, her soul all truth, That none her fears or flight discover, Poor Peg, in guise a comely youth, Follow'd to the field her lover:

Directed by the fife and drum To where the work of death was doing, Where of brave hearts the time was come, Who, seeking honour, grasp at ruin.

Her very soul was chill'd with woe, New horror came in every sound, And whisper'd death had lain him low On the cold ground.

With mute affliction as she stood, While her woman's fears confound her, With terror all her soul subdued, A mourning train came thronging round her:

The plaintive fife and muffl'd drum The martial obsequies discover, His name she heard, and cried I come, Faithful to meet my murder'd lover!

Then heart-rent by a sigh of woe, Fell, to the grief of all around, Where death had laid her lover low, On the cold ground!