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EBBA 33030

National Library of Scotland - Crawford
Ballad XSLT Template
The Lunatick Lover:
OR,
The Young Man's Call to Grim King of the Ghosts for Cure.
To an Excellent New Tune. Licensed according to Order.

GRim King of the Ghosts make hast,
and bring hither all your Train;
See how the pale Moon do's wast!
and just now is in the Wain:
Come you Night-Hags with all your Charms,
and Revelling Witches away,
And hug me close in your Arms,
to you my Respects I'll pay.

I'll Court you and think you fair,
since Love, do's distract my Brain;
I'll go and I'll wed the Night-Mare,
and kiss her and kiss her again.

But if she proves peevish and proud,
then a pise of her Love let her go,
I'll seek me a winding Shroud,
and down to the Shades below.

A Lunacy I endure,
since Reason departs away;
I call to those Hags for cure,
as knowing not what I say:
The Beauty whom I do adore,
now slights me with scorn and disdain;
I never shall see her more,
ah! how shall I bear my pain?

I ramble and range about
to find out my charming Saint,
While she at my Grief do's stout,
and smiles at my loud Complaint:
Distraction I see is my Doom,
of this I am too too sure;
A Rival is got in my room,
while Torments I do endure.

Strange Fancies doth fill my Head,
while wand'ring in Despair,
I am to the Desarts lead,
expecting to find her there:
Methinks in a spangl'd Cloud
I see her enthron'd on high,
Then to her I cry'd aloud,
and labour'd to reach the Sky.

When thus I have rav'd a while,
and weary'd myself in vain,
I lie on the barren Soil,
and bitterly do complain;
Till Slumber hath quieted me,
in sorrow I sigh and weep,
The Clouds is my Canopy,
to cover me while I sleep,

I dream that my Charming Fair
is then in my Rival's Bed,
Whose Tresses of golden Hair
is on the fair Pillows spread:
Then this doth my Passion enflame,
I start and no longer can lie:
Oh! Silvia, art thou not to blame
to Ruine a Lover? I cry.

Grim King of the Ghosts be true,
and hurry me hence away;
My languishing Life to you,
as Tribute I freely pay:
To the Elizium Shades I post,
in hopes to be free from Care,
Where many a bleeding Ghost
is hovering in the Air.


Printed for P. Brooksby, at the Golden-Ball,
in Pye-Corner.

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