ANONYMOUS. THE OLD AND YOUNG COURTIER. THIS is a banter by some "fine old Queen Elizabeth gentleman" (or somebody writing in his character) on the new and certainly far less respectable times of James the First; an age in which a gross and unprincipled court took the place of a romantic one, and greatness became confounded with worldliness; an age in which a lusus nature was on the throne, in which Beaumont and Fletcher were spoilt, the corruption and ruin of the great Bacon completed, Sir Walter Raleigh murdered, and a pardon given to Lord and Lady Somerset. However, I must not injure the pleasant effect of an old song by pitching the critical prelude in too grave a tone. It is here printed, as given with corrections in Percy's Reliques, from an ancient black-letter copy in the Pepys collection of Ballads, Garlands, &c., preserved at Magdalen College in Cambridge. This Pepys is " our fat friend" of the Memoirs, now a man of as jovial a reputation, as he was once considered staid and formal. He must have taken singular delight in the song before us; for though a lover of old times, and an objector upon principle to new, he had an inclination to the pleasures of both. The song is admirable; full of the gusto of iteration, and exquisite in variety as well as sameness. It repeats the word "old" till we are enamoured of antiquity, and prepared to resent the impertinence of things new. What a blow to retiring poverty is the "thump on the back with the stone!" and what a climax of negative merit is that of the waiting-gentlewoman, who, when her lady has dined, "lets the servants not eat!" I should not wonder if it had been written by Decker. It has all his humour, moral sweetness, and flow. An old song made by an aged old pate Of an old worshipful gentleman, who had a great estate, That kept a brave old house at a bountiful rate, And an old porter to relieve the poor at his gate; Like an old courtier of the queen's, With an old lady, whose anger one word assuages, That every quarter paid their old servants their wages, And never knew what belong'd to coachmen, footmen, nor pages, But kept twenty old fellows with blue coats and badges ; Like an old courtier, &c. With an old study fill'd full of learned old books; With an old reverend chaplain, you might know him by his looks ; With an old buttery hatch, worn quite off the hooks; And an old kitchen, that maintain'd half a dozen old cooks; Like an old courtier, &c. With an old hall hung about with pikes, guns, and bows; With old swords, and bucklers, that had borne many shrewd blows, And an old frieze coat to cover his worship's trunk hose; And a cup of old sherry to comfort his copper nose; Like an old courtier, &c. With a good old fashion, when Christmas was come, And old liquor able to make a cat speak and a man dumb ; With an old falconer, huntsman, and a kennel of hounds, But to his eldest son his house and land he assign'd, Like a young courtier of the king's, Like a flourishing young gallant, newly come to his land, Like a young courtier, &c. With a new-fangled lady, that is dainty, nice, and spare, Who never knew what belong'd to good house-keeping, or care. Who buys gaudy-colour'd fans to play with a wanton air, Like a young courtier, &c. With a new-fashion'd hall, built where the old one stood, Like a young courtier, &c. With a new study, stuft full of pamphlets and plays, And a new chaplain, that swears faster than he prays ; With a new buttery hatch, that opens once in four or five days, And a new French cook, to devise fine kickshaws and toys; Like a young courtier, &c. With a new fashion, when Christmas is drawing on, On a new journey to London straight we all must be gone, And leave none to keep house but our new porter John, Who relieves the poor with a thump on the back with a stone; Like a young courtier, &c. With a new gentleman usher, whose carriage is complete; With a new coachman, footmen, and pages to carry up the meat; With a waiting gentlewoman, whose dressing is very neat, Who, when her lady has din'd, lets the servants not eat; With new titles of honour bought with his father's old gold, RANDOLPH. BORN, 1605-DIED, 1634. THOMAS RANDOLPH, who died Fellow of Trinity College, Cambridge, aged twenty-nine, was one of the favourite disciples of Ben Jonson. He had a vein of comedy gayer and more natural than his master's, which might have rendered him a favourite with posterity, had he outlived the influence of his training. He had as much learning for his time of life, more animal spirits, and appears to have been very amiable. His brother collected and published his writings, with an introduction full of love and respect. He lost a finger once in endeavouring to part two combatants; and, instead of bewailing the mishap, turned it into a subject for epigram, and said he hoped to "shake hands with it in heaven." Randolph's best known play, the Muses' LookingGlass, which is to be found in late collections of the old drama, is singularly full of life, considering it is one continued allegory, and didactic withal. And |