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of legislation in that age, I send you the following proclamation of Edward II. It may afford matter for serious reflection to some of your readers; I see no evidence that any other authority was required to sanction this decree, but the will of the king alone. Let us compare those times with the present. F. J.

Proclamation of Edward, anno 1315. EDWARD, by the grace of God king of England, &c. to all sheriffs, mayors, bailiffs of Franchises greeting. For as much as we have heard and understanded the greivious complaints of archbishops, bishops, prelates, and barons, touching great dearth of victuals in our realm, We ordain, from hence forward, that no ox stalled or corn-fed, be sold for more than 23 s. no other grass-fed ox før more than 16 s. a fat stalled cow at 12s. another cow, lefs worth, 10 s. a fat mutton, corn-fed, or whose wool is well grown, twentypence, another fat mutton, fhorn, fourteenpence, a fat hog of two years old, 3 s. 4 d. a fat goose twopence, in the city threepence, a fat capon twopence, a fat hen one penny, two chickens one penny, four pigeons one penny, three in the city for one penny, twenty-four eggs a penny, twenty in the city a penny.

We ordain to all our fheriffs and our other ministers whatsoever they be, that if any person buy or sell, any of the things above named, contrary tọ our ordinance aforesaid, that the ware be forfeited, and due penalty set upon them for their desert.

Given at Westminster under our great seal, the 4th day of March, in the 8th year of our reign,

To the Editor of the Bee.




An old Scots song, never before published.
To the tune of the highway to Dublin.


<< COME under my plaidy, the night's ga'en to fa'; "Come in frae the cauld blast, the drift and the snaw; "Come under my plaidy, and lie down beside me; "There's room in't, dear lafsie! believe me, for twa. "Come under my plaidy, and lie down beside me,, "I'll hap ye frae ev'ry cauld blast that will blaw: "O come under my plaidy, and lie doun beside me, "There's room in't, dear lafsie! believe me for twa."


• Gae 'wa wi' your plaidy! auld Donald gae 'wa!
I fear na the cauld blast, the drift, nor the fnaw
Gae 'wa wi your plaidy! I'll no lie beside ye;
Ye may be my gutchard; auld Donald gae 'wa.
I'm ga'en to meet JOHNNY, he's young and he's bonny;
He's been at Meg's bridal, fou trig and fou braw!

O there's nane dance sae lightly, sae gracefu' sae tightly, • His cheek's like the new rose, his brow's like the snaw."


"Dear MARION let that flee stick fast to the wa;
"Your Jack's but a gowk, and has naithing ava;
"The hale o' his pack, he has now on his back:
"He's thretty, and I am but threescore and tra.
"Be frank now and kindly: I'll bufk ye aye finely;
"At kirk or at market they'll few gang sae braw;
"A bein house to bide in, a chaise for to ride in,
"And flunkies to tend ye as aft as ye ca."


'My father's ay tell'd me, my mither and a',
Ye'd mak a gude husband, and keep me ay braw;
It's true I loo Johnny, he's gude and he's bonny,
But waes me! ye ken he has naething ava!

I hae little tocher; you've made a gude offer;
'I'm now mair than twenty; my time is but sma'!
Sae gi me your plaidy; I'll creep in beside ye,
I thought ye'd been aulder than threescore and twa.


She crap in ayont him, beside the stane wa'
Whar Johnny was list'ning and heard her tell a',
The day was appointed, his proud heart it dunted,
And strack 'gainst his side as if bursting in twa

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He wander'd hame weary, the night it was dreary!
And thowlefs, he tint his gait deep 'mang the snaw:
The howlet was screaming, while Johnny cried, "Women
Wa'd marry auld nick if he'd keep them ay bra'."


O the deel's in the lafses! they gang now sae bra',
They'll lie down wi auld men o' FOUR SCORE and twa;
The hale o 'this marriage, is gowd and a carriage;
Plain LUVE is the cauldest blast now that can blaw!
Yet doitards be wary, take tent how ye marry;
Young wives in their saddles will whip and will ca;
Oh they'll meet wi' some Johnny, that's youthfu' and bonny,
And gi ye something on ilk haft to claw.


THOSE who believe that smooth numbers, and a regular recurrence of certain sounds, at stated intervals, constitute the whole of poetry, may país over the following poem; for it will not suit their taste. But such as think that the great end of poetry is to excite strong and vivid ideas, by delicately touching the sympathetic chords of the human mind, may peruse it without fear of being disappointed. They will indeed regret, that a person, whose natural feelings has suggested some of the tenderest and most unaffected exprefsions that are to be found in our language, should have been so very deficient in the general melody of sounds. For poetry never produces its fullest effect, but where the natural impafsioned tones, suggested by those ideas which totally fill the mind at the time, are allowed to be fully expanded without restraint. Had it not been for the swelling rotundity of Milton's numbers, his poems would now have been idolized like precious relics only by a few, instead of affording delight to persons of all ranks. Shakespeare, himself, would have been allowed to moulder on the fhelf, were it not for that inimitable talent he pofsefsed of uniting bold · and delicate touches of nature, with that infinitely varied modulation of exprefsive tones, which every where occur in all his works.

Dr Henry King, the author of this piece, was bishop of Winchester, a clergyman of distinguished talents, and conspicuous piety: He was born anno 1591, and died anno 1669.


ACCEPT thou fhrine of my dead saint
Instead of dirges this complaint;

And for sweet flowres to crown thy hearse,

Receive a strew of weeping verse

From thy griev'd friend, whom thou might'st see

Quite melted into tears for thee.

Dear lofs! since thy untimely fate
My task hath been to meditate
On thee, on thee: thou art the book,
The library whereon I look,

Though almost blind; for thee (lovd clay)
I languish out, not live the day,
Using no other exercise

But what I practise with mine eyes:
By which wet glasses I find out
How lazily time creeps about
To one that mourns: This, onely this,
My exercise and bus'nefs is:
So I compute the weary hours
With sighs difsolved into fhow'rs

Nor wonder if my time go thus
Backward and most preposterous;
Thou hast benighted me; thy set,
This eve of blacknefs did beget,
Who wast my day, (tho' overcast
Before thou hadst thy noontide past,)
And I remember must in tears,
Thou scarce hadst seen so many years
As day tells houres, by thy clear sun
My love and fortune first did run;
But thou wilt never more appear
Folded within my hemisphear,
Since both thy light and motion
Like a fled star is fall'n and gon;
And twixt me and my soule's dear wifh
The earth now interposed is,
Which such a strange eclipse doth make
As ne'er was read in almanake.

I could allow thee for a time
To darken me and my sad clime,
Were it a month, a year, or ten,
I would thy exile live till then;
And all that space my mirth adjourn,
So thou would'st promise to return;
And putting off thy ashy shrowd
At length disperse this sorrow's cloud.
But woe is me! the longest date
Too narrow is to calculate,
These empty hopes: never fhall I
Be so much blest, as to descry

A glimpse of thee, till that day come
Which shall the earth to cinders doome,
And a fierce fever must calcine

The body of this world like thine,
(My little world) that fit of fire
Once off, our bodies fhall aspire
To our soule's blifs: then we shall rise,,
And view ourselves with cleerer eyes
In that calm region, where no night
Can hide us from each other's sight.

* * * *

Sleep on, my love, in thy cold bed Never to be disquieted!

My last good night! thou wilt not wake
Till I thy fate shall overtake:
Till age, or grief, or sicknefs must
Marry my body to that dust

It so much loves; and fill the room
My heart keeps empty in thy tomb..
Stay for me there; I will not faile
To meet thee in that hollow vale.
And think not much of my delay:
I am already on the way,
And follow thee with all the speed.
Desire can make, or sorrows breed.
Each minute is a fhort degree,
And ev'ry houre a step towards thee.
At night when I betake to rest,
Next morn I rise neerer my west
Of life, almost by eight houres saile,
Then when sleep breath'd his drowsie gale.



The thought of this bids me go on,
And wait my dissolution
With hope and comfort, dear (forgive
The crime) I am content to live
Divided, with but half a heart,
Till we shall meet and never part.


THE rose had been wash'd, just wash'd in a show'r,
Which Marry to Anna convey'd,

The plentiful moisture encumber'd the flow'r,
And weigh'd down its beautiful head.

The cup was all fill'd, and the leaves were all wet, And it seem'd, to a fanciful view,

To weep for the buds it had left with regret
On the flourishing bush where it grew.

I hastily seiz'd it, unfit as it was

For a nosegay, so drooping and drown'd, And wringing it rudely, too rudely, alas!

I snapt it, it fell to the ground.

And such, I exclaim'd, is the pitylefs part
Some act by the delicate mind,
Regardless of wringing and breaking a heart
Already to sorrow resign'd.

This elegant rose, had I fhaken it lefs,

Might have bloom'd with its owner a while; And a tear that is wip'd with a little address May be follow'd, perhaps, by a smile.

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