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^ THE 

SONGS 



ENGLAND AND SCOTLAND. 



IN TWO VOLUMES. 



VOL. I, 



The heavcnlle melodic— 
Of Bongres full of hanaoaie. 

COAUCKR. 



LONDON: 
JAMES COCHHANE AND CO. 

U, WATERLOO PLACE. 

1835. 



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WILLIAM NICOL, 51, PALL-MALL, LONDON. 



i 



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v./ 



TO 



ALLAN CUNNINGHAM 



THESE LITTLE VOLUMES 



AFFECTIONATELY INSCRIBED. 



742016 

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INTRODUCTION. 

Of songes and of detees glade.— Go\rxB. 
Old songa the happy music of the heart— Wordswobth. 



Poetry, Music, and Painting, are universally ac- 
knowledged to be the early offspring of all nations, 
even in their rudest state, " wherever language 
is found," says Mr. Southey, '' verse of some kind 
or other is found also 3*'^ and the great Dryden 
has said, that *' mankind even the most barbarous, 
have the seeds of poetry implanted in them." f 
Music, I may add, had its origin at the same time, 
bat painting was of somewhat later growth, when 
knowledge was greater and refinement more exten- 
sive : 

** Onr arts are sisters, thoagh not twins in birth, 
For songs were sung in Bden's happy earth" — 

so the author of Absalom and Achitophel, wrote 
to Sir Godfrey Kneller. It is remarked by Ritson, 
that " all writers agree in speaking of song as the 
most ancient species of poetry, its origin," he adds, 
" is even thought to be coeval with mankind." { 



* Prefkce to his Continuation of Ellis's Specimens, 
t Preface to the Translation of Juvenal. 
X Historical Essay on National Song, 1783. 
VOL. u b 



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n INTRODUCTION. 

When the earth was ' young and green/ we are in- 
formed by our Bibles^ every man was a shepherd and 
attended his own flocks as they browsed on unmown 
plains and sunny declivities^ where, though sin was 
known, yet harmony more widely prevailed, and love 
influenced alike shepherd and shepherdess. Our first 
parents we may suppose, sung not verses in cele- 
bration of each other, but tuned their voices " in the 
wild notes of natural poetry"* to the praise of their 
Creator, who had placed them in the midst of such 
blessings ; and so Milton has poetically, and per- 
haps, correctly described them. To some discon- 
solate swain who was desirous of making widely 
known either the charms or the cruelty of his mis- 
tress, we must impute the birth of our love-songs j 
those were the strains that '' delayed the huddling 
brook, and lapped the prisoned soul in soft elysium 5" 
the maid was then likened to a sportive lamb, her 
teeth to the white fleeces of a newly washen flock 
of sheep, and her lips to the dropping "honey 5 those 
sweet strains sung to the music of a shepherd's reed, 
described by Allan Ramsay, as — 

*• A dainty MPhisUe with a pleasant sound," 

after the dance with timbrels in the cool of evening, 
presented to the mind all that earth could offer of 
paradise. 



* Dryden. Preface to Juvenal. 



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INTRODUCTION. Ill 

There can be little doubt but that the poetry of 
all nations originated in the love cherished by the 
one sex towards the other 5 feelings broke out into 
verse, and spoke the language of the heart — ^pro- 
bably bursting forth at last into such rapturous 
exclamations, as — 

" By heaven and earth I love thee.** 

Idle ingenuity has sometimes changed the com- 
pliment into a conceit, and the song into a strain of 
artifidal politeness. Our isle has produced poets 
who sat down resolutely to sing of Chloe or Amynta, 
not remembering a brother has said, that — 

'* Joys nnfelt are never song.** 

To come nearer our own day, and to illustrate 
our opinion, we are told by Bums himself, that he 
never had the least inclination of turning poet till 
he got heartily in love, and then rhyme and song 
were the spontaneous language of his heart : a heart 
that glowed, with what he describes as " honest 
warm simphcity.*' * At all times nature exhibits a 
sufficient number of images to the eye and fancy of 
a poet — ^the cool of spring, the heat of summer, the 
yellow leaf of autumn, and the frosts of winter. 
Every field produces beauties of its own to awaken 
fresh sentiment, from the gay flowers of May to the 
bright stars and spotless snows of December. The 

* See his Works by CunDiDgham, vol. vi. p. 29. 



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IV INTRODUCTION. 

$liei)herd hearing of, and seeing only a pastoral life, 
drew his images from the fields around him, the 
person of his love was neither adorned nor oon- 
cealed hy the adulteries of art, and he sung of hear 
as he found her: 

"All WM tweet, and all was sound.*' 

To win the favour of one so fair, was the utmost 
of his amhition -, he told in wood-notes wild, in 
untutored verse, the sweetness of her mind and the 
graces of her person 3 he was the shepherd that 
Spenser and Pope sung of : 

" A shepherd boy, he seeks no better name.** 

It is to the pastoral life of England and Scotland, 
to the rosy faces of our Dowsahells, Rosalinds, 
Peggys and Jeanies, we must look for the origin 
of our song ; from the field and the sheep-hook to 
the court and the town, is a single step, hut it is a 
long one. Our search into song, Mr. Cunningham 
has already happily illustrated, hy the image of 
the boy chasing the rainhow from hill to hill, the 
nearer he imagined he was, the farther he was away 
from it.* 

" he runs 
To catch the fislling glory ; bat amazed 
Beholds the amnsive arch before him fly, 
Then vanish quite away." Thomson. 

We may safely suppose the manners and customs 

* Introduction to the Songs of Scotland, 4 vol. 1836. 



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IXTBODUCTION. V 

of the ancient British^ difiered little from the early 
manners of other nations. The South Americans 
were found hy the Spaniards to be passionately fond 
of music, they were constantly in the custom of as- 
sembling together to dance, an amusement in which 
the softer sex were never allowed to participate. 
Their songs were chiefly of a martial kind, for 
women were considered as mere slaves, and treated 
with something like contempt. In an old writer 
quoted by Hitson, we find that the natives of His- 
paniola, had " certayne rymes or balletes they call 
Areitos. And as our Mynstrelles are accustomed 
to syng to the harp or lute, so do they in lyke 
maner syng these songes, and daunce to the same, 
playing on timbrels made of shells of certayne 
fishes. They have also songes and ballettes of loue, 
and other of lamentations and moumyng, some also 
to encourage them to the warres, with euery of 
them theyr tunes agreeable to the matter."*^ The 
inhabitants of America were not ignorant, we are 
told by Dr. Robertson,t of strong hquors, in which 
they rioted to excess, till scenes of bloodshed closed 
these unnatural festivals 3 whether ' when the wine 
cup shined in light,* those rude people chaunted 
songs in praise of what they much loved, we must 
leave to the imagination to settle. 

In the early history of Britain, we find a class of 



* Hist. Essay on National Song, p. 8. 
t See his History of America. 



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INTRODUCTION. 



sacred poets existing, denominated Bards^ who are 
represented as singing verses to the harp, recording 
the deeds of heroes and heroines. The persons of 
these Bards were held sacred, and their skill was 
reckoned divine j hut as civilization and literature 
advanced, and poetry no longer remained a separate 
science, this office with its numerous religious cere- 
monies, gave place to a new rank of poets called 
Gleemen or Harpers, of whom the English Minstrels 
are reckoned as the genuine successors.* 

The Minstrels were an order of men who flou- 
rished during the middle ages in the courts of our 
princes and the halls of our nohility, subsisting by 
the art of poetry and music, and singing to the harp 
verses composed by themselves or others, at the 
samfe time adorning their recitations with mimicry 
and action.! Before the invention of printing, our 
ancestors, who according to Sir Walter Scott, had 
little conversational powers, encouraged th« two most 
delightful arts, to drown care and afford amusement. 
The ancient Bards or Scalds, merely sang in praise 
of heroes, hut the Minstrels on the introduction of 
Metrical Romance-writing into Europe, whether 
from Arabia or Scandinavia, related the marvellous 



* See Percy, Warton, Ellis, Ritson, Scott, to whose valuable Essays 
on Ancient Minstrelsy, these pages are much indebted. 

t Such is the definition Percy at last gaye, " which," Sir W. Scott 
says, " no unprejudiced reader can have any hesitation in adopting." 
Intr. to Min. of Scot. Border. Ritson argued that Minstrel meant no 
■jaore than Musician, wliich Scott Justly laughs at. 



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INTRODUCTION. VU 

deeds of some wondrous champion who undertook 
and accomplished the destruction of a fiery dragon, 
that had infested forest or field for years without 
number, in order to attain the hand of a beauteous 
Bhmcheflour. Many of those old romances, which 
the Minstrels chanted, and which Chaucer alludes 
to, still exist, shewing a vein of fancy and an ele- 
gance of description, for the period in which they 
were composed truly wonderftil,— have re-appeared 
within these few years delighting, and even en- 
chanting another course of readers and listeners. 
Whether our Minstrels * were indebted to their own 
imagination for the birth of such wild efiiisions, or 
borrowed from the neighbouring countries, has 
been a point on which oar antiquaries have expended 
much learning and ingenuity. It seems probable, 
that Sir Tristrem, Hyndhom, and Havelok the Dane, 
are productions of the British soil, but even of these 
there exist copies in French and German, with the 
story a little varied, apparently about the same age ; 
indeed, there are few or none of our romances but 
exist in other languages with variations. To settle, 
then, to the fancy and ingenuity, of what nation we 
owe these " sedgeying tales," will everbe a matter 
of doubt and dispute ^ it appears at least, likely, that 



« Ritson with his characteristic arrogrance asserts that, *' there is 
not one single metrical romance in English, known to exist, which 
appears to have been written by a Minstrel." (Intr. to Met. Roman, 
p. criL) That sagacious Editor attribates them to the monks* 



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VUl INTRODUCTION. 

those romances^ the scenes of which are laid in Bri* 
tain^ are the compositions of native Minstrels * 

It will scarcely he foreign here to enter a little 
into the discussion about the precise rank the min- 
strels, the songsters of old^ in their days of sunshine 
held. A writer of taste and learning — ^Bishop Percy, 
was the first to revive an interest in their strains, and 
to publish a curibus and instructive history of the 
minstrel race ; but the Bishop*s poetic feeling in- 
duced him to heighten a litde their situation, which 
the plodding industry of Ritson exposed, but ex- 
posed only to err himself as £Eur on the other side. 
Ritson represents the English Minstrels, as little 
better than a despicable race -, and that at no time, 
he writes, were they the favourite solacers of the 
leisure hours of princes, as Percy has described 
them. That the Norman Minstrels were better than 
beggars, thif common story of Blondel and King 
Richard the First, is sufficient proof -, but on what 
authority can it be said that they were beggars at 
all times ? Sir Walter Scott has remarked, that True 
Thomas> or Thomas of £rcildoune, the Minstrd 



* « The courts of our Norman Kings/' says Mr. George BUis, 
'* prodaced the birth of romance literatore." Ritson giyes it a^ his 
opinion that " the art of romance writing, the English acquired from 
the French/' the English romances being merely translations from 
the iTench. [Met. Rom. p. c] See Ellis' Met. Roman. Intro.,— where 
the various hypotheses of Percj, Warton, Leyden, &c. are ably ex. 
amined. Mr. Ellis' hypothesis seems founded on a good base, for the 
French langnage was spoken in the courts of England as well as in 
those of France. But in what country romance writing hadits origin 
will always be a matter of dispute. 



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INTBODUCTION. IX 

Author of Sir Tristrem^ was " the companion of 
nobles^ and himself a man of landed property -" and 
the constant starting note of old ballads, " Lythe 
and listen lordins free," proves that they were not 
constantly in the habit of addressing a dass of 
men humble like themselves. Fortunately for this 
theory, as objections have been made to the word 
" lordins," meaning '' lords 5" Percy has printed in 
his collection, the fragment of the ancient romance 
of Guy and Colbronde, which we wish he had 
brought forward to support his position, for Ritson 
could not have quietly passed it over: it Ix^ns 
thus — 

When meete and drynke it great plentje 
And lordt and ladiet stUl will bee 

And sit and solace [bllyfhe 
Then it is time for mee to speake,* 
&c. &c. &c. 

If " lordins" is a diminutive expression, there 
can surely be no objections to the certainly clear 
enough defined words '' lords and ladies." But 
despicability surely can never be applied to a class 
of men, one of whom, the joculator or minstrel of 
William the Conqueror, had lands allotted to him 
in Gloucestershire, f While one of the same 
individuals was a camp attendant of Edward the 



* Percy's Rdiqaes of Ancient English Poetry. 
t See ElUs's Intr. to Met. Rom. 



y Google 



X INTRODUCTION. 

Second to the field of Bannockburn. These at least 
are good authorities for a contradiction of Ritson's 
assertions. 

The genuine minstrel ballads which time has 
spared to us^ Ritson supposes, not willingly, for 
he had no regard for Percy or his book, to be, 1. 
The ancient Ballad of Chevy Chace 3 2. Battle of 
Otterbourne ; 3. John Dory ; 4. Little Musgrave 
and Lady Barnard ^ 5. Lord Thomas and Fair 
Eleanor, and 6. Fair Margaret and Sweet William : 
" to which," the same scrupulous editor has said 
'' we may possibly add, John Armstrong and Cap- 
tain Care,** * These ballads are well known through 
the numerous publications of Ancient Minstrelsy 
poured upon us during the last fifty years. 

As soon as printing had difiused literature through 
the land, the place of the minstrels was supplied, and 
gradually that poetic race sank into neglect and 
obscurity, frequenting taverns, and accepting the 
poor man's groat, instead of feasting with the rich 
and being rewarded with gold. Talent then left their 
ranks and made its fame known by the printer's type, 
and blind harpers and indifferent crowders chanted 
with rude voices songs and ballads still affording plea* 
sure to the public ear. In the early part of Queen 
Elizabeth's reign, we learn from Futtenham's Art of 
English Poesie, the Minstrels had totally lost favour, 

* Intr. to Met. Rom. p, ccxvili. 



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INTRODUCTION. XI 

SO that in 1596^ an Act of Parliament was passed, 
classing them with " sturdy beggars, rogues and 
vagabonds," and adjudging them to be punished as 
such. The ill-^Eivour into which they had &i]len,inade 
Dr. Bull, a satirist of that time, speak of them as 

Beggars by one consent. 
And rognes by Act of Parliament. 

And Stubb's,*in his Anatomic of Abuse, published in 
1583, quoted by Ritsoh, has described them as 
*' drunken sockets and bawdy parasites, that sing 
unclean songs in ale-houses^ innes and other public 
assemblies." Thus the race of Minstrels became 
extinct.* 



* Judging from the lengthy Romances and Ballads which the 
Minstrels treated our forefathers with, their patience must not hare 
been small. When we would now a-days fly to books for amusement, 
our ancestors called for the harp and the Minstrel's talent, when 
strains or tales similar to many of Chaucer's were chanted. Troilus 
and Cressida, the poet directs to be, 

— redde where so thou be or ellis songe. 

B. V. verse 1796. 

The tale it is highly probable was divided into parts or fyttes, for 
different nights, as Scott has imitated in his Lay of the Last Minstrel. 
One of the concluding lines of a romance printed by Mr. George 
Ellis, runs : — 

And of Ipomydon here is a fytte. 

The chief musical instruments in the days of Chaucer were the 
harp, which the wanton Frere could play on— and the wife qf Bath had 
oft danced to. The sautrie or psaltery on which hendy Nichcdas coold 
sweetly play. The rote, the violin, or hurdy gurdy now in use. The 
citole orcistole, supposed to be the dulcimer. The ribible, probably 
the rebec or fiddle— and the giterne, the cittern, or guitar. The lute, 



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Xll INTRODUCTION. 

The earliest English song, '' with or without 
musical notes/' is preserved among the Harleian 
MSS. [No. 978] it is written in praise of the 
cuckoo 3 Ritson refers it to about the year 1250, 
while Sir John Hawkins gives it to the middle of 
the fifteenth century. In examining the manuscript, 
the former date seems to come nearest the antiquity 
of the old illuminated parchment : 

Snmer is icumen in. 

Lhode singr caeca. 
Groweth sed and bloweth mad 

And tpringth the wde na. 
Sing caeca. 

Awe bleteth after lomb. 

Lhoath after calae ca. 
Ballac sterteUi. backe aerteth 

Marie sing caeca. 

Cucca caeca. 

Wel singes tha caeca 

Ne swik ya naner na. 
Sing caeca na. sing caeca. 

Sing caeca, sing caeca na. 

From another MS. in the Harleian Library [No. 
2953], Ritson* has printed a song "in praise of the 



the cymbal, the taboor, the symphonic. The bagpipe, the hornpipe, 
with •• fltttes and litlyng homes," also :— 

Pipes, trompes, nakeres and elarionnes 
That in the bataille blowen blody soanes. 

See Hawkins's History of Masic,— Barney's Ditto, and Ritson's 
Ancient Songs. 

« It is bat Jastice to state that Thomas Warton was the first to pub 
lish these songs of the olden time in his History of £ngUsh Poetry. 



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INTBODUOTION. 



author's mistress^ whose name was Alysoun ;*' this 
is inserted in his first class^ comprehending the 
reigns of Henry III. Edward I. II. and III. and 
Richard II. It opens thus : 



Bytaene Mereh ant Averil 

When spray big^neth to springe 
The Intel fonl hath hire wyl 

On byre lad * to synge i 
Ich libbet in lonelonyinge 
For semlokest t of all thynge. 
He may me biiase bringe, 

Icliam in hire brandonn.^ 
An bendy bap icbabbe ybent 
Icbot % from herene it is me sent, 
Frcnn all wymmen my lone is lent 

Ant lyht on Alysonn. 

He further speaks of— > 

Hire browe broune, hire eyhe blake. 
With lossnm** chere [s]he on me lob }tt 
l^th middel smal ant well ymak. 

And in another places- 
Hire swyrett is wbittore then the swon. 

The same MS. has preserved another song in which 
the author describes " his beautiful, but unrelenting 
mistress :** 

That sweting is ant ever wes. 

*' I would place it," says Warton, " before or about 
the year 1200 -," this is one of the verses : 



* In her own langnage. t I live. t Seemliest. 

4 I am at her command. | I bare cangbt or gotten a good 

fortune. f 1 wot. •* Loresome. tt Laoghed. u Keck. 



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INTAODUCTION. 

Heo* Is coral of goColdnesae, 
Heo is ruble of ryhtfalnesse, 
Heo is cristal of claimesse. 

And baner of bealU. 
Heo is lilie of largesse, 
Heo is parbeaket of proaesse. 
Heo is solsecle t of suetnesse. 

And ledjr of bealtd. 



Though she is as Bums says, " the pink of woman- 
kind," yet — 



For hire love y carke ant care, 
For hire love y droupne and dare, f 
For hire love my blisse is bare. 

And al ich waxe won. 
Fdr hire love in slep yslake 
For hire love all nyht ich wake. 
For hire love monrnyng y make 

More than eny mon. 



the chorus is : 

Blow northcme wynd 

Sent thou me my suetyng 

Blow northerne wynd, blou, blou, blou. 

Another of our old writers has praised his mistress 
as the fairest maid " hetweene Lyncolne ant 
Lyndesey, Northampton ant Lounde," [i. e. Lon- 
don] in five stanzas, beginning in this very pleasing 
way : 

When the nyhtegale singes the wodes waxen green, 
Lef ant gras ant blosme springes in Averyl y wene. 
Ant love Is to myn herte gon with one spere so kene 
Nyht ant day my blod hyt drinkes, myn herte deth me tene. 



• She. t Pink. t Sunflower. S Hurt or distress myself. 



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i 



INTBODUCTION. XV 

These '^ aoncient ditties/* are supposed to have 
been written anterior to Chaucer^ 

** Whose lig^ht those douds and mists dis80lT*d 
Which oor dark natioa long involT'd j" 

the father of our poetry had in his day written many 
a song and goodly hallad -, like his ^' yonge squier/* 

" He coade songes make and well indite,*' 



if he could not *' singe and plaien on a rote,** like 

'"' the wanton " frere." These valuable pieces of 

42 ancient minstrelsy, time, the greatest of thieves, 

'^ has robbed us of. As Ritson says, '' Chaucer's 

. ballads have been sung, but they are certainly no 

songs.** 

To illustrate the history of song during the 

reigns of the kings immediately following Chaucer's 

i master, Edward III., our many public libraries aflFord 

» little or nothing. Gower and Occleve adorned our 

literature, or rather improved the ruggedness of 

our language; and Lydgate, a monk, wrote as 

many works as would satisfy the burning thirst 

for writing, of half a dozen of the voluminous 

authors of the nineteenth century. Though Henry V. 

ordered that no songs should be recited to celebrate 

the victory of Agincourt, some poet laureate of 

those days has wedded it to immortal rhyme, even 

* the music of it has been preserved.* Charies Duke 



* See Percy's Reliqucs, vol. it. p. 26. Ed. 1811. 



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F' 



XVI INTRODUCTION. 

of Orleans, while prisoner in England during this 
reign, wrote a volume of Love poems^ still pre- 
served among the Harleian Papers, [682]. The 
Editor looked for a better specimen than the one 
given by Ritson, beginning, — 

Lend me yoare praty month madune. 

See how j kneele here at yowre feet, &c. &c. 

but it was a vain search. 

To the reign of his son, Henry VI. is given the 
old ballads of Chevy Chace and the battle of Otter- 
bourne, ballads admired by old and young. Of this 
time also, is a " Song on an Inconstant Mistress,*' a 
theme prevalent in all ages. 

Who 80 lyst to love, God send hym right good spede. 
Some tyme y loved, as ye may see, 
A goodlyer tber myght none be, 
Here womanhode ia all degree, 
Full well she qaytt my mede. 

[Who so lyst, &c.] 
Unto the tyme, upon a day. 
To sone tber fill a gret affray. 
She badde me walke forth on my way, 
On me she gatt none hede. 

Woso lyst, &c. 
I asked the cause why and wlierfor. 
She displesede was with me so sore ; 
, She wold nat tell, but kept in store, 
Perdy it was no nede. 

Woso lyst, &c. 
For if y badde bur displeased 
In worde or dede, or hir greved, 
Tlian if she badde before meved,* 
She hadde cause in dede. 

Woso lyst, &c. 

* Departed. 



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T^ 



INTRODUCTION. xvU 

But w«ll 7 wote y hadde nat done, 
Har to displese, bat in grete mone 
She hath me left and yt aix>ne. 
For Bowre my hert doth blede. 
Wo so lyst, &c. 

Some tyme she wold to me complayne, 
Yff she had felt dysease or payne, 
Now fele y noagrht bat grete disdayne. 
Alias, what is your rede ? 

Wo so lyst, &c. 

Shan I lere of, and let hnr go ) 
Nay ner the rather will y do so. 
Yet though onkyndnesse do me wo, 
Har will y love and drede. 
Wo so lyst, &c. 

Some hope that when she knowith the case, 
Y truste to God that withyne short spase 
She will me take agayne to grace. 
Than have y well abydde. 
Wo so lyst, &c. 

And for trew lovers shall y pray, 
niat ther ladyes fro day to day. 
May ' them ' vewarde so that ttiey may 
vnxik joy ther lyves lede. 

Wo so lyst, &c. « 

In the reign of Edward IV. we have a ' balet' by 
Anthony Woodvyle, Earl Rivers, written during his 
imprisonment in Pontefract castle, in the year 1483, 



* Ftom MS8. More, F. f. 1. 6. Ritson's Ancient Songs, p. 7S. Among 
the Haileian MSS. [Ml] written in Henry Vlth^s time, there is an old 
song beginning :— 

Bryng as home good ale, sir, bryng as home good ale. 
And, for oar der ladylove bryng as home good ale. 

Its valae is hart by its indelicacy, and the introdaction of oiir Ss^^ioor's 
' carsc and mine.' Dr. Johnson has said of it— that the o^arriment is 
very grpss, and the sentiments very worthless. 
VOL. I. C 



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XVIU INTRODUCTION. 

there is nothing remarkable in it^ though Percy 
and Ritson have inserted it in their collections. 

To Henry the Eighth's time belongs John Skelton^ 
the poet laureate an industrious plodding rhjrmer -, 
many of his songs savour too strongly of indecency^ 
and others are but scant of merit. His works paint 
the manners of his age^ and are valuable merely 
for that unpoetical quality. We have other songs 
besides Skelton*s^ written at this period, the best of 
which is one entitled by Ritson : — 

A [LOVE] SONGE. 

My Joye it is from her to here. 
Whom that my mysd ys eaer to see, 
& to my h«rt she ys most near 
For I love har & she lovyth me. 

Of deaty nedes I most bur love. 
Which hath my hart so stedfastty, 
Ther ys no payne may me convert, 
Bnt styll to lone hor whyle she lovyth me. 

Both lone for lone, 8t hart for hart. 
Which hath my hart so stedfastly, 
Therfore my hart shall not remove. 
For I love hnr & she lovyth me. 

Chryst wxAt • the ffager f of hur swete face 
Were pyctored wher eaer 1 * be * 
Yn euery hall, from place to place. 
For I lone hor and she lovyth me. 

Her copany doth me confort, 
Therfor in hast J wyll resorte, 
To yoye my harte wt play & sport, 
For I lone hor & she lovyth me.t 

• Would to Christ. f Figrnre. 

t Ritson strangely enoiigh altered these verses himself for the new 
edition of his Ancient Songs, transposing lines, omitting the last 



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INTRODUCTION. XIX 

Sir John Hawkins in his History of Music has 
presented us with another very pretty song^ written 
in Harry the Eighth's day, inserted by Ritson in his 
Ancient Songs. 

MY SWETE SWETING. 

Ah, mj swete swetTog I 

My lytyl prety swetyng, 
My swetynir wyl I loue whereaer I go } 

She is 8Q proper and pure. 
Foil stedfast, stabill and demure. 

There is none such, ye may be sure. 
As my swete sweting. 

In all fhys world, as fhynketh me. 
Is none so plesaunt to my eye. 
That I am glad soo ofte to see. 
As my swete swetyng. 

When I behold my swetyng swete, 
Her face, her hands, her minion fete, 
They seme to me there is none so mete. 
As my swete swetyng. 

Above all other prairse must I, 

And lone my pretty pygsnye,* 

For none I fynd soo womanly 

As my swete swetyng. 

Among the Royal MSS. in the British Museum 
there is a small oblong music book, with words 
and notes, undoubtedly written during the reign of 
Henry VIII. The songs found in it are of no great 
merit, even the industrious Ritson, a lover of every 



stanxa, and christening it, ** Mutual Affection," what sacrilege I See 
the edition of 1830, toI. ii. p. 22. The above is printed from the MS. 
(Harl. 8363) and Ritson's first print. 
* Sweetheart. 



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XX INTRODUCTION. 

thing that wore an air of antiquity^ passed it over. 
It contains a few verses nevertheless written with 
a tinge of comic spirit ahout them^ an uncommon 
Tknty in this class of English productions. An 
unfortunate suitor^ apparently rejoicing that some 
misfortune has happened to his once loved Kytt^ 
bursts into the subject at once — 



Kytt hathe lost bar key bur Icey* 
Qoode Kytt hath lost hnr key, 
Sh^ls so sorry for the cause — 
She wotts not what to say- 
She wotts not what to say goode Kytt— 

She wotts not what to say, 
Goode Kitt's so sorry for the cause- 
She wotts not what to say. 

Goode Kytt she wept, I ask'd why so 
That she made all this mone, 

She sayde alas 1 I am so woo 
If y key is lost and gone. 

Kytt hathe lost, &c. 

Kytt why did ye losse yoor key 
Fore sothe ye were to blame. 

Now ea*y man to yow will say 
Kytt Losse Key is your name. 
Kytt hathe lost, &c. 

Goode Kytt she wept and cry'd, alas 1 
Hor key she cowde not fynde 

In faythe I trow in bowrs she was 
With sum that were not kinde. 
Kytt hathe lost, &c. 

Now farewell Kytt I can no more 

I wot not what to say. 
But I shall pray to Gode therfore 

That yow may fynde your key. 
Kytt hathe lost, Sec. 



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INTRODUCTION. XXI 

Another of the little pieces contained in it^ which 
has likewise never before been referred to, comes 
from a favoured lover in praise of his mistress. 

If I hade wjtt for to endyte 
Off my lady bofh fayre and free 
Of her goodnesse then wolde I write. 
Shall no man know her name for me. 

I lo7e hur well wyth hart and mynde 
She y8 ryght true I doo hyt see 
My hart to hane she dothe me bynde 
Shsll no man know hor name for me. 

She doOi not waoer as the wynde. 
Nor for no new me chaange dothe she 
Bat all wayes tme I doo hur fynde 
Shall no man know hor name for me. 

He concludes by saying that she hath his heart 
and ever shall — 

Tyll by dethe departyd we bee. 

The same writer who keeps up a mystery about 
his love^ is probably the author of the following 
lines. — 

The little pretty nightingale 
[Sings sweet] among the levis green 
1 would I were with her all night 
But yet ye wote not whom I mean. 

The nightingale sat on a brere 
Among the thomys sharp aod keen 
And comfort me with merry cheer 
But yet ye wote not whom I mean. 

The Editor has modernised the spelling of one of 
the exclamations in the song against Fortune, and 
slightly altered one or two lines.j 



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Xxii INTRODUCTION. 

O Fortune now my woands redrcM 

And help me from my smart. 
It Cometh well of gentloiess 

To ease a moumingr heart. 

O Fortune crael harsh and hard 

What aileth thee at me 
My pleasores all thou dost retard ' 

To aid Adversity. 

Alas ! I love a goodly one, 

Who loveth me again — 
It is for her I live alone — 

Though thou dost shower disdain. 

TO have her hand I think me sure, 

O Fortune cry consent— 
And change thy frown of displeasure. 

Not make our love misspent. 

Woe worth thy power my foremost foe 

That art so rude to me 
Thou tumest all to care and woe— 

That joys and sweets should be. 

Among the Cottonian M SS. [Vesp. A. 25.] there 
is a " Dyttie to hey Downe/' which Percy inserted 
with a few alterations in the Reliques of Ancient 
Poetry. The volume contains " Divers things of 
Hen. viij*s time** — this is the first verse : 

Who sekes to tame the blustering wind. 

Or cause the floods bend to his will. 
Or else against dame Natures kind, 

TO change things frame [d] by cunning skill : 
That man I think bestoweth pain. 
Though that his labour be in vain. 

Henry Howard^ Lord Surrey, and Sir Thomas 
Wyatt, were the chief poets adorning the reign of 
the last Henry. Neither of them wrote what may 
strictly be called songs, Surrey's '' description of the 



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INTRODUCTION. XXIl 

restless state of a lover/* borders closely on the 
debateable land : — 

When jcnXh. had led me half the race 
That Capid'8 scourge had made me ran ; 
I looked back to mete the place 
From whence mj wearf coarse began. 

as abo does Wyatt*s *' description of the sorrow of 
true lovers partii^ :** — 

There was never nothing more me pain'd. 
Nor more mj pity mov'd. 
As when my sweetheart her oomplain'd, 
That ever she me loT'dr— 
Alas J the while I 

The beautiful pastoral ballad ' Harpalus/ is a 
composition of this period^ the exquisite simplicity 
of the description^ that want of straining for effect 
cannot be too greatly admired. The author who- 
ever he was had the feelings <^ a true poet, and 
wrote like one. 

To the short reign of the sixth Edward, Eitson 
ascribes a very singular and clever song written in 
dispraise of women 5 here are one or two of the 
verses : — 

These women all. 
Both great and small, 

Are wavering to and fro. 
Now her[e] now ther[e] 
Now every whcr[e]. 

But I will not say so. 

They love to range, 
Ther[e] minds doth change 

And make ther * friend' ther foe } 
As lovers trewe, 
Eche daye they chewse new 

But I will not say so. 



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Xxiv INTRODUCTION. 

They laagrbe, thej smylle, 
They do beguile, 

As dyce that men * do* throwe ; 
Who nseth them much 
Shall neaer be ryche. 

Bat I vdll not say 80.« 

A discontented husband during the same rdgn 
complains in stanzas which no doubt he thought 
just and good. They are clever and happy, these 
will serve as a specimen : — 

The man ys blest 

That lyres in rest. 
And so can keep him stylle ; 

And he is * accurst ,' 

That was the first 
That gaTe his wyff her will. 

• • • 

There ys no man 

Whose wisdom canne 
Reforme a wylfoll wyff. 

But onely god 

Who maide the rod 
For our onttiryfty lyflte. 

' The religious morality* of lusty Juventus opens 
with this not inelegant song for the sixteenth 
century : 

In a herber grene aslepe where as I lay. 

The byrdes sange swete in the middes of ttie daye, 

I dreamed fast of myrtli and play ; 

In yoath is pleasure, in yonth Is pleasure. 

Methooght I walked stil to and firo. 
And from her company I could not go $ 
But when I waked it was not so : 

In youth is pleasure, in youth is pleasure. 

• Harl. MS . 7578. 



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INTRODtXCTION. XXV 

Therfore my hart is sorelf pyght 
Of her alone to have a sight, 
Which is my joy and hartes delyght : 

In yoath is pleasure, in youth is pleasure. 

These selections are among the very best speci- 
mens of our old songs that have come down to us. 
If they have all the simplicity of the old ballad, 
they lack something of the poetic fervour of expres- 
sion which the others possess in so eminent a degree. 
This want the Elizabethan writers supplied. *' We 
now arrive at the time," says Ritson, writing of this 
period, '^ in which we are to look for the origin 
of the modem English song 3 not a single com- 
position of that nature, with the smallest degree of 
poetical merit, being discoverable at any preceding 
period." * 

The collection of songs here presented to the 
public, being arranged chronologically, will serve to 
shew the progress of song from the reign of Eliza- 
beth to the present day in the clearest view. The 
very graphic picture contained in Bishop Still's 
" Jolly Good Ale," cannot be too much admired — 
It is not only the earliest English drinking song, 
but it is the best, and save a phrase or two might 
be sung with good eflFect in the present day. Were 
our musicians to turn more frequently to our best 
Anthologies, their talent and their ingenuity might 
be better employed than in setting to not indif- 
ferent airs the vast piles of mere trash, and pilfered 

* Hist. Essay on Nat. Song, p. lyL 



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XXVI INTBODUCTION. 

trash too, that the musical market has of late heen 
deluged with. 

The tune of Lady Greensleeves was very popular 
in the early part of Queen Elizabeth's age. The 
song or ballad to this air, printed in a little quarto 
collection of Poems entitled, *' A Handeful of Plea^ 
sant Delights/* 1584, is worthy of having some of 
its verses extracted into these pages, as affording an 
insight into the manners of an age we cannot be too 
well acquainted with. It opens in this manner : — 

Alas 1 my lOTe, ye do me wrong, 
To cast me off cUscoarteoosly ) 
And I have loved yon so longr 
Delighting in yoor company. 
GreensleeTes was all my ioy, 
Greensleeves was my delight, 
Greensleeves was my hart of gold. 
And who bat Ladle Greensleeves. 

I have been readie at yonr hand. 

To grant whatever you woald crave, 
I have both waged Ufe and land, 

Yoor love and good will for to have. 

I bought thee kerchere to ihy head. 
That were wrought fine and gallantly, 

I kept thee booth at boord and bed 
Whi<^ coat my purse well fiavourediy. 

I bought thee peticotes of the best— 

The cloth so fine as might be 
I gave thee iewels for thy chest 

And all this cost I spent on thee. 

Thy smocke of silke bothe fttir and white 

With gold embrodered gorgeously ; 
Thy peticote of sendaU * right 

And these I bought thee gladly. 

* Thin silk. 



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INTRODUCTION. XXVll 

He then describes her girdle of gold, her purse, 
the crimson stockings all of silk, the pumps as 
white as milk, the gown of grassy green, the satin 
sleeves, the gold-fringed garters, all of which he 
gave her with his gayest gelding, and his men 
decked all in green to wait upon her : — 

They set thee up, they took fhee down 

They eenred thee with hmnUitie ) 
Thy foote might not once toach the groond 

And yet thoa wooldst not love me. 

She could desire no earthly thing hut what she had it. 

Wel I wil pray to God on hie 
That thoa my constancie maytt see, 

And that yet once before I die 
Thoa wilt voachsafe to love me. 

Oreensleeves, now farewell I adiea ! 

God I pray to prosper thee ! 
For I am still thy lover trae. 

Come once again and love me. 

These verses are homely enough — ^but there is a 
song a degree or two more elegant contained in the 
same curious volume ; it hears the singular heading 
of " The Lover being wounded with his Ladies 
beautie requireth mercy, ' to the tune of Apelles.* '* 

The livelie sparkes of those two eyes 
My wonnded hart hath set on fire { 
And since I can no way devise 
To stay the rage of my desire. 

With sighs and trembling tears I crave 
My deare on me some pitie have. 
In vewing thee, I tooke sach ioy, 

As one that soaght his qniet resti 
UntiU I felt the feather'd boy 
Ay flickering in my eaptive brest-^ 

Since that time, loe I in deep despaire 
AU void of ioy my time I wearer 



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XXVUl INTBOPUCTION. 

The woAiIl priioner Palemon, 

And Troylos eke, Kinge Pyramus sonne. 
Constrained by love did never mone 
As I my deer for thee have done — 
Let pitie then requite my paines — 
My life and death in thee remaines. 

If constant love may reap his hire 

And faith nnfiitned may pnrchase. 
Great hope I have to my desire 
Your ipentle heart -will grant me grace. 

Till then, my deer! in few wordes plaine 
In pensive thoughts I shall remaine. 

" The Phoenix Neste," another valuahle collect! oa 
of small poems^ printed within a few years of the 
volume we have just quoted from^ contains a Lover's 
description of his Love^ 

about whose gentle eye 
A thousand Cupids flie, 

and who wishes to pursue no sweeter life than ta 
die in her love. Here are a few of the stanzas.*— 

The liUie in the fldde. 
That glories in his white — 
For pureness now most yeelde,. 
And render up his right 

Heaven plctur'd in her face 

Doth promise ioy and grace. 

Faire CinthU's silaer light. 
That beates on running streames» 
Compares not with her white. 
Whose haires are all sonbeames,, 

Hir virtues so doe shine 

As dale vnto mine eine. 

With this there is a red. 
Exceeds tiie damaske rose ; 
Which in her cheekes is spred ; 
Whence euery fauor groes 

In skie there is no starre. 

That riie surmounts not Cure. 



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INTRODUCTION. XXix 

When Phoebus fhnn the bed. 
Of Thetis doth arise. 
The morning blushing red. 
In Mre carnation wise— , 

He rtienes it in her fsce 

As Qoeene of ewerj grace. 

Our old poets seemed to imagine as too true 
what the Duke of Orleans wrote on his copy of 
manuscript poems preserved in the British Museum, 
that '' the god Cupide, and Venus the goddess hau 
pour on all worldly gladness.*' 

Ritson places Marlowe at the head of the song- 
writers of Elizabeth's reign, " not more," says he, 
'' by reason of his priority, than on account of his 
merits." Had Marlowe alone written the little 
song of the Shepherd to his Love, (*' in which," 
Mr. Campbell writes, " there are found the com- 
bined beauties of sweet wild spirit, and an exquisite 
finish of expression,") his name would descend to 
posterity as a writer of both high and pure fancy — 
though his " mighty lines," as Jonson calls them, 
had never been either composed or preserved. 
Raleigh's reply to the Shepherd, wanting the origi- 
nality, has all the same feeling, grace, and delicacy 
of Marlowe's song. Gifford, Lilly, Fulke Greville, 
and Greene, have eacK left some pretty specimens 
of lyrical talent, but nothing particularly to distin- 
guish them from others. 

Had Breton written always with the simplicity 
and sweetness found in his PhiUida and Corydon, 
his name would have been more widely known. 



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XXX INTRODUCTION. 

The song beginnings " Take, oh take those lips 
away/' is worthy of any age or of any poet — it is far 
superior in exquisite delicacy of thought to any of 
Shakspeare's very admirable songs varied as they 
are. Chalkhill's song well merits the commenda- 
tion of Isaak Walton as ' choicely good.' Wotton 
wrote with the feeling of a true poet, and old Donne 
in ' the Bait,' left his rugged lines and artificial 
pleasantries for something of simpHcity and truth. 

Ben Jonson's songs are the most artfully imagined, 
and the most delightfiilly finished of any in our 
language. Those beginning, ' Drink to me only 
with thine eyes,' and ^ Oh do not wanton with those 
eyes,' are the richest gems of this collection, fanci- 
ful, elegant, and refined. There is much sweetness 
and beauty about the lyrics of both Bemimont and 
Fletcher. 

The ballads by George Wither, are universal and 
deserved favourites, — they breathe the air of Britain, 
and will be admired while Nature exists and poetry 
is felt. Mr. Campbell has justly styled Herrick's 
address to the virgins as ' sweetly Anacreontic* 
' Herrick has passages,* Campbell adds, ' where the 
thoughts seem to dance into numbers from his very 
heart, and where lie frolics like a being made up of 
melody and pleasure.' Shirley's ' Death's Final 
Conquest,* is full of the finest moral grandeur. 

Carew has been called by Pope a bad Waller — 
but neither Waller or Pope have happier touches of 
truth than are frequently found in Carew, who de- 



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INTRODUCTION. XXXI 

servedly i^ks amoBg tbe earliest of those who g«ve 
a cultivated grace to our lyrical strains.* 

Of The Address to Althea from prison by Love- 
lace^ Mr. Southey has said that it will live as kHig 
as the English language. Suckling wrote with ease, 
sprightHness, and gaiety^ while the songs of Brome 
have^ what may be called a great merits variety. 

We now arrive at the Revolution of 1660, when 
a complete change took place in our literature by 
the cultivated taste and exquisite ear of Dryden. By 
many it is thought that true feeling degenerated, and 
that nature reafiy gave way to art : among this class 
erf perhaps just thinkers is Mr. Procter, better kn(Jwn 
as Barry Cornwall. There have been few or no 
songs since the Revolution that can compare with 
the little lyrics found in our old dramatists — 

Like orient pearls at random strung^ 

but I can see no good grounds for Mr. Procter's 
assertion that " from the period of the Revolution 
to the time of Thomson and Collins, all our songs, 
and most of our poems were evidently written by 
the celebrated ' Lady of Quality.* " 

Dryden has spoken of Lord Dorset's songs as 
' the delight and wonder of bis age 5' and flatter- 
ingly adds, ' they wiQ be the envy of the next.' 
Time has stripped the leaves from the laurel bough 
that courtiers put around the brow of Dorset, and 

* Campbell. 



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XXXU INTRODUCTION. 

his fame as a man of talent rests solely upon his 
address written at sea during the Dutch war^ to the 
Ladies at Whitehall. Dryden*s genius had no com- 
mand over a song^ he was deficient in lyrical ease, 
and had neither nature or conceit on his sick. 
Sedley, Rochester and Prior are Dryden's superiors 
in song. 

The taste of Ritson was of a most common- 
place quality — yet what he has said of Gray^ may be 
taken as correct with a little abatement^ ' while a 
particle of taste ' remains among us — ^his songs, 
lively, humorous, witty, elegant, tender and pathetic, 
will certainly be remembered, and must always 
please.* Gay's ballad, 

'Twas when the seas were roaring— 

is one of our finest modem poems. Thesimplidty 
and truth found in Carey's Sally in our Alley, will 
always cause it to be popular. 

The single song of Bishop Percy's 

O Nancy wilt thon gro with me, 

is one of the most exquisitely beautifid in the 
English language. There is nothing more tender 
or sweet to be imagined. John Cunningham is the 
author of one fine song, ' Kate of Aberdeen,' which 
posterity will not willingly let die, and the genius of 
Sheridan has served to enrich our Anthologies. 

In this slight criticism on our song-writers, I 
have only ventured to speak of those poets whose 



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INVKODVCTION. XXXIU 

lyrics demanded a separate notice. It can never be 
a cause oi complaint that England is singularly 
Wurven of aong^wrkers, tfaoii^ it may be said she 
i» somewhat defident in good ones. Our best poets 
have iteost all atten^ted song, luid hove, I think, 
too frequently failed, while those who have been 
generally sp<d(en of as second class authors, have 
without exception Um most Ijrrical turn of thought 
and egqiression. Fec^e are too apt to consider a 
song as a trifle because it is^hort>not lemembering 
the compre8sion> mr what Dryden has> styled the 
doBOiess of thou^i with the simplicity, pathos, 
and musk> requisite for an author to excel in a very 
difficult and very high departm^it of genhis. Bornfr 
has somewhere said that those who consider a good 
song aaa trifle easy to be written, should set them- 
sehrea down and try^ 

Hicr songs of Mr. Moore are idi but unequalled 
for efegaaoe of expression and subtlety of thought, 
flowing 9lang at thesasite tintt>in tfae.exaeteat har- 
numy. The airs of Irebuid are not only 

If uMed to immortal verse, ' 

but he has indeed as Cowley said, ' married them to 
eternal youth,' for time shall lend them fresh fervour 
and firesh beauty.* 



* Ttib adttcr regret* tlutthe has been onable to obtain permistion to 
insert tome of Mr. Moore's songs in this collection. He acknow- 
ledges the courtesy and kindness of Mr. Moore in granting him per- 
mlseloa to select what he required as far as it lay in his power to do 

VOL. I. d 



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XXXIV INTRODUGtlON. 

Barry Cornwall has caoght much df the spirit^ 
and lyrical ease of our old dramatists. The depth of 
thought in his songs^ is what we too rarely meet 
with. I need only mention the names of Mr. Lover 
and Mr. Darley^ and who can do so without great 
approhation. 

In looking over the works of our poets^ it cannot 
hut he a source of regret that such authors as 
Cowley^ Donne/ Daniel^ Drummond, and many 
others had not given the fine ore of their genius a 
more popular cast^ or a more musical nicety. The 
sentiments of these writers though often laboured 
and artificial^ are frequently pleasingly natural, in- 
deed some of the very finest compliments, or what 
should properly he called conceits, may be found in 
their pages. A gentleman author. Sir Benjamin 
Rudyard, who flourished during the Elizabethan 
period, has one of the happiest, one of the luckiest 
complimental conceits ever imagined, he begins by 
saying since every man is singing the praises of his 
love, he sees no reason why he should not make 
some pretty song for the favourite of his heart, that 
she may fit it to her voice. 



so }-4)iit the publisher and proinietor of the Irish Melodies has refused 
so many similar requests, that he could not accede to the present 
one without giving offence to titled and noble applicants. The Edi- 
tor cannot conceiye what ii^ury the printing of half a docen songs 
could do to the copyright of a work like the Irish Melodies— which 
must be in the hands of every one. Bad the music of even a sing^ 
song been printed, copyright would certainly have been interfered 
with and hurt— but with the priptiog of the lyrioi th«nsclves» the 
case seems otherwise. 



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INTRODUCTION. X3CXV 

As for descent mnd Urfb In her. 

You see, before you seek— 
The house of Yoilc and Lancaster 

United in her cheek. 

Several little elegancies of almost similar beauty 
might be brought forward from the writings of old 
poets did the limits of this preface permit such 
wandering. 

On comparing the English songs with the Scottish, 
it will be found, I think, that the former are more 
artificial, the latter more natural ; the English love 
songs rather depending upon a single sentiment, the 
Scottish in a general description and admiration of 
beauty, the one bordering somewhat upon coldness, 
the other full of warmth and truth, the one seems ad- 
dressed to their mistresses, the other to those whom 
they love as themselves. A Scottish song is a story 
mingled with sentiment— the English is a sentiment 
alone. The Englishman writer as a learned cavalier, 
the Scotsman as an enthusiastic devotee. There 
are certainly exceptions on both sides to this parallel, 
but this seems the distinction. 

There are few drinking or convivial songs in the 
English language, songs which may be sung — 

When flooring cups run swiftly round 
With no allaying Thames — 

the Scotch have got the better of their Southern^ 
neighbours in this respect 3 there are no English 
lyrics whic^h we can dass with ' Willy brew*d a peck 
o* maut,' and ' When I've a saxpence under my 



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XXXVl IMTEODUCTION. 

thumb/ (the latter, says Bmtis, isperhaps the best 
bottle song ever composed) j of songs which excite 
laughter, or what should be rather called comic or 
humorous songs, the English are equally defident^ 
The Scotchman can put forward Duncan Ofay, 
Tibbie Fowler, Willy was a wanton wag, md 
Maggy Lauder, all written in the true comic sj^^ 
fidl of gleie and pawky humour. Carey's strains are 
mere failures as drinking compositions, and when 
honest Harry, as Ritson delights to call hkn, des- 
cended into such strains as 

Zeno, Plato, AristoUe, 

All were lovers of the bottle, 

his little talent was lost in mere balderdash. 

Of martial, or what has been called naval and 
military songs, the English can shew few or none. 
While Thomson, Bums, Scott, and Campbell, have 
enriched the Scottish Anthplogies, in this division 
of song, it must be regretted that Charles Dibdin is 
the only name an Englishman is able to produce. 

If we observe so many beauties, and so many 
more admirable songs of nearly all kinds, the pro- 
perty of Scotland — it must nevertheless be admkted 
that the admirers of Anacreon will look in vain 
through the collection of Scots songs for a real 
Anacreontic^ for an exquisite morsel written in the 
spirit of the old Grecian, — the English volumes are 
full of such sweets, such delicate and choice effusions 
of the fancy. 



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IMTJIODUOnON. XXXVM 

IrdttBd 18 OD an eqpud footing wkh her tister« 
kingdoms in the departmeirt of Song-writing* 
Sevefftl of Uie finest productions contained in the 
pieieat yotume, are from the pens of Irishmen. 

It wfll, the Editor thinks, he pretty generallf al- 
lowed hy those who are acquainted with lyrical comr* 
pdiitiofis, that Bea Jonson atands deddeifiy at the 
hoad ^ English songsters, &e delicacy anddef^ of 
hia tlioiight are unrivnllfid, but not more so than his 
esBquuisite manner of handling what one cannot hut 
call a conceit It was remarked by Bums that he 
would sooner be the author of one good song than 
twenty middling ones, Jonson's songs are not nu- 
merous (for I do not allude at large to those con- 
tained in his Masques which were not written, to be 
^Hdded from the entertainments themselves), but 
the few he wrote are brifliants, brilliants of the first 
wat«ar set in the finest workmanship of gold. The 
fe^jfiest of Ms mistress to drink to him only with her 
eyes, will be admired as long as beauty has a lip, 
and grilantry is an ornament to man. 

In the present collection of Songs It has been the 
desire of the Editor, not so much to please anti- 
quariaM readers with extracts from rare volumes, or 
^ hyvers of * mirth and jollity,' with oyer-rap« 
tnrous imd indelicate songs ; but by admitting 
whatever seemed to bear the stamp of talent and 
decency to give delight to beauty, and to place 
within the reach of the lovers of poetry a weU- 
isdected, and correct edition of our best lyrics 



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XXXVIU INTRODUCTION. 

which lie scattered over so many hundred volmnes. 
If the present work shall serve to wile away a 
lingering honr> the Editor will be pleased that a 
task^ which though one of labour^ has afforded him 
both instruction and amusement^ will not altogether 
have been useless. 

In venturing to select a few songs from the 
numerous strains of the authors of the nineteenth 
century-- he feels that he has trod, on very difficult 
ground^ and though willing to please, still fears he 
may give offence. Dryden in one of his manly pro* 
logues comi^ns of the many — 

Who write new songs and tnist in tane and rhyme,— 

had that great author lived in the present day, he 
scarcely could have pictured more justly the herd of 
songsters that annoy the ear of all true lovers of 
poetry with sentiments as old as the unchanging 
hills 3 dull thoughts foisted upon one without even a 
smooth air to recommend them. 

It was the desire of Sir Joshua Reynolds that the 
last words he should pronounce in the Royal 
Academy should be the name of Michael Angelo. 
The Editor will conclude this imperfect introduction 
by naming the men whom he reckons to be the 
great song-writers of our nation, Jonbon, Burn» 
and Moore. 



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NOTE. 

[Since the note was printed to the song at p. 75— 

Keep on yonr mask and hide jowc eje, 

the Editor haa found the same yerses given as the composition of 
Lord Pemhroke, the great Patron of Literary talent. See Brydges** 
reprint of Pembroke and Radyard's Poems, p. 92, first pnbUshed by 
the son of Dr. Donne.] 



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SONGS 

or 
ENGLAND AND IRELAND. 



[The distinction between Scotish and English Songs, it is con- 
ceiTed, arises— not from the language in which they . are written, for 
that may be common to both,— but— from the coaotry to which they 
respectively belong, or of which their authors are natives. The dis- 
crimination does not so necessarily or properly apply to Ireland, great 
part of which was colonised from this kingdom, [England] and the 
descendants of the settlers have ever been looked upon as English. 

RiTSON.] 



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SON6ES 

ATTYR'D IN SWEETMBSSB 

Dmmmond of Hawthomden. 



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SONGS 



ENGLAND AND IRELAND. 



JOLLY GOOD ALE. 



BISHOP STILL. 



I can not eat, but little meat. 

My stomach is not good; 
But sure I thinke, that I can drinke 

With him that weares a hood, 
Thoughe I go bare, take ye no care, 

I am nothinge a colde ; 
I stuffe my skin so full within. 

Of jolly good ale and old. 
Backe and side go bare, go bare. 

Booth foot and hand go cold : 
But beUy, God send thee good ale ynougbe. 

Whether it be new or old. 

I love no rost, but a nut-browne toste. 

And a crab laid in the fire, 
A little bread shall do me stead. 

Much bread I not desire 



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SONGS PF. ENGLAND AND IRELAND. 

\ . : :-: : ; 

•* . '• ' • • 

No frost'e nor §now, nor winde, I trow, 

• .f;?jin lMipt« me; if I wolde, 

I am so' wfapt/and tbrowly lapt 

Of joly ^ood ale and old. 
Back and side go bate, &c. 

And Tib my wife, that as her life 

Lovetb well good ale to seeke. 
Full ofte drinkes shee, till ye may sec 

The teares run down ber cbeeke ; 
Tben dotb sbe trowle to me tbe bowlc. 

Even as a mault worm should ; 
And saitb, sweet heart, I took my part 

Of this joly good ale and old. 
Buck and side go bare, &c. 

Now let them drink, till they nod and wink. 

Even as good fellows should do. 
They shall not misse to have the blisse 

Good ale doth bring men to : 
And all poor souls that have scowred boules. 

Or have them lustely trolde, 
God save the lives of them and iheir wives 

Whether they be yonge or olde. 
Back and side go bare, &c. 



[From "A ryght pithy, plesannt aod m^rie comedic: Intytoled 
Gammer Gurtons Nedle, impriDted by Thomas Colwell, 1575.'* War- 
ton a^d Ritson tell us that it is the first drinking ballad of any merit 
in our language, •* It has," writes Warton, " a vein of ease and 
humour, which we should not expect to have been inspired by the 
simple beverage of those times." Hist, of £ng. Poet. Ed. 1824, vol. 4, 
p. 30. Stm was Bishop of Bath and Wells.] 



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SONGS OF ENGLAND AND IRELAND. 

THE SHEPHERD TO HIS LOVE. 

CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE. 

Born 1565— Killed 1593. 

€ome« live with me and be my love, 
And we will all the pleasures prove. 
That grove or valley, hill or field, 
Or wood and steepy mountain yield. 

Where we will sit on rising rocks 
And see the shepherds feed their fiocks. 
By shallow rivers, to whose falls 
Melodious birds sing madrigals. 

Pleas'd will I make thee beds of roses 
And twine a thousand fragrant posies ; 
A cap of flowers, and rural kirtle. 
Embroidered all with leaves of myrtle. 

A jaunty gown of finest wool. 
Which from our pretty lambs we pull — 
And shoes lin'd choicely for the cold — 
With buckles of the purest gold. 

A belt of straw, and ivy-buds 
With coral clasps, and amber studs ; 
If these, these pleasures can thee move 
To live with me, and be my love. 



[This beautifol song is the composition of Christopher Marlowe, a 
dramatic writer of Qaeen Elizabeth's time. It has commonly been 
attributed to Shakqieare, and part of it, even in the great poet's day. 



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6 SONGS OF ENGLAND AND IRELAND. 

was published wifh his name attached to it, in ''Hie Passionate 
Pilgrime, and Sonnets to sundry Notes of Masicke, by Mr. William 
Shakespeare, London, Printed for W. Jaggard, 1509." In the Poetical 
Miscellany pubUshed in 1600, called " England's Helicon/' it is given ' 
with Marlowe's name— and Isaak Walton in his Angler attributes it 
to him. Shakspeare makes Parson Evans sing some of the lines when 
he is waiting to flgfat Doctor Cains. Marlowe in his <* Jew of Malta," 
1591, quotes a verse of it. At the end of the volume will be found 
numerous variations as given in England's Helicon, the versions of 
Percy, Ritson, and Ellis, with that of Isaak Walton in his Angler. 
The reader will select the most poetical. ] 



THE NYMPH'S REPLY. 

SIR WALTER RALEIGH. 

Bom 1562— Beheaded I6l8. 

If all the world and love were young, 
And truth on every Shepherd's tongue. 
These pleasures might my passion move. 
To live with thee, and be thy love. 

But fading flowers in every field. 
To winter floods their treasures yield ; 
A honey'd tongue, a heart of gall, 
Is Fancy^s spring, but Sorrow's fall. 

Thy gown, thy shoes, thy beds of roses. 
Thy cap, thy kirtle, and thy posies. 
Are all soon withered, broke, forgotten. 
In Folly ripe, in Reason rotten. 

Thy belt of straw, and ivy-buds. 
Thy coral clasps, and amber studs. 
Can me with no enticements move. 
To live with thee, and be thy love. 



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SONGS OF ENGLAND AND IR£LAND. 7 

But could Youth last, could Love still breed ; 
Had joys no date, had Ag'e no need ; 
Then those delights my mind might move. 
To live with thee, and be thy love. 



[Written, Isaak Walton informs us by Ralei(h, " in his youngrer 
days/' and adds, alluding also to Marlowe's song, that it is " old 
fiashioned poetry bat choicely good." nils copy is given from Sir 
Egerton Brydges' Edition of Baldgfa's Poems-~the earliest copy I 
believe known to exist is that in " Ki\gland*s Helicon," which the 
reader will find at th& end of this volume. The signature " Ignoto," 
found often in that curious and valuable mlsodlany, is supposed to 
be Raleigh's.] 



THE SHEPHERD TO HIS LOVE. 
[another op tAe same nature made since.] 



SIR WALTER RALEIGH. 

Come live mth me, and be my dear. 

And we will revel all the year. 

In plains and groves, on hills and dales. 

Where fragrant ur breeds sweetest gales. 

ft 

There shall you have the beauteous pine, 
The cedar and the spreading vine ; 
And all the woods to be a screen. 
Lest Phoebus kiss my Summer*s Queen. 



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8 SONGS OF ENOLAXD AND IRELAND. 

The seat for your disport shall be. 
Over some river in a tree ; 
Where silver sand, «nd pebbles sing 
Eternal ditties with the spring. 

There shall you see the nymphs at play ; 
And how the satyrs spend the day ; 
The fishes gliding on the sands. 
Offering their bellies to your hands. 

Tlie birds with heavenly tuned throats. 
Possess woods echoes with sweet notes ; 
Which to your senses will impart 
A music to enflame the heart. 

Upon the bare and leafless oak 
The ring-doves wooings will provoke 
A colder blood than you possess. 
To play with me and do no less. 

In bowers of laurel trimly dight. 
We will outwear the silent night ; 
While Flora busy is to spread 
Her richest treasure on our bed. 

Ten thousand glow-worms shall attend. 
And all their sparkling lights shall spend. 
All to adorn and beautify 
Your lodging with most majesty. 

Then in mine arms mil I enclose. 
Lilies' fair mixtiiVe with the rose ;* 
Whose nice perfections in love's play 
Shall tune me to the highest key. 

* The reader jrtU remember almost the same sentiment, but still 

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SONGS OF ENGLAND AND IRELAND. 

Thus as we pass the welcome night 
In sportful pleasures and delight, 
The nimble fairies on the grounds. 
Shall dance and sing melodious sounds. 

If these may serve for to entice 
Your presence to love*s paradise. 
Then come with me and be my dear. 
And we will straight begin the year. 



[From England's Helicon, where it is printed wifh the si^ature 
Igrnoto. There have been many imitators of Marlowe's songr, and 
several parodies grossly indecent.] 



HIS LOVE ADMITS NO RIVAL. 
SIR WALTER RALEIGH. 

Shall I, like a hermit dwell. 
On a rock, or in a cell. 
Calling home the smallest part 
That is missing of my heart. 
To bestow it, where I may 
Meet a rival every day ? 
If she undervalue me. 
What care I how fair she be ? 



more beautifolly expressed in the ballad of " Fair Rosamond " given 
by Percy :— 

The blood within her crystal cheekes 

Did such a coloar drive. 
As though the lillye and the rose 
For mastership did strive. 

Perot's Reliques, vol. 2, p. 16l, Ed. ISII. 



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]0 SONGS OF ENGLAND AND IRELAND. 

Were her tresses an^el-gold,* 
If a stranger may be bold, 
Unrebuked, unafraid. 
To convert them to a braid ; 
And with little more ado 
Work them into bracelets, too ! 
If the mine be grown so free. 
What care I how rich it be ? 

Were her hands as rich a prize 
As her hairs or precious eyes ; 
If she lay them out to take 
Kisses, for good-manners si^e ; 
And let every lover skip 
From her hand unto her lip ; 
If she seem not chaste to me 
What care I how chaste she be ? 

No ; she must be perfect snow. 
In effect as well as show. 
Warming but as snow-balls do 
Not like fire, by burning too ; 
But when she by change hath got 
To her heart a second lot ; '^ 
Then, if others share with me. 
Farewell her, whatever she be ! 



[Sir Egerton Brydges has admitted this piece into his edition of 
Raleigh's poems, but says he has strong doubts whether it shoold be 
Attributed to Sir Walter's pen. It looks certainly more like one of 
Qeorge Wither's oonceits.] 



* Gold coined into Angels was so termed, being of a finer kind than 
crown gold. Pare. 



k 



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SONGS OF ENGLAND AND IRELAND. 11 

THE SILENT LOVER. 

SIR WALTER RALEIGH. 



Wrong not sweet mistress of my heart 

The merit of true passion. 
With thinking that he feels no smart. 

Who sues for no compassion ! 

Since, if my plaints were not t'approve 
The conquest of thy beauty. 

It comes not from defect of love. 
But fear t'exceed my duty. 

For, knowing that I sue to serve 

A sidnt of such perfection. 
As all desire, but none deserve 

A place in her affection. 

I rather choose to want relief 
Than venture the revealing : 

Where glory recommends the grief. 
Despair disdains the healing ! 

Thus those desires that boil so high 

In any mortal lover. 
When Reason cannot make them die. 

Discretion them must cover. 

Yet when Discretion doth bereave 
The plaints that I should utter. 

Then your Discretion may perceive 
That Silence is a suitor. 



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1^2 SONGS OF ENGLAND AND IRELAND. 

Silence in Love bewrays more woe 
Than words, though ne'er so witty ; 

A beggar that is dumb, you know. 
May challenge double pity ! 

Theil wrong not ! dearest to my heart ! 

My love for secret passion ; 
He smarteth most that hides his smart. 

And sues for no compassion 1 



[This is a most eztraordinarf poem ; terse, hannonious, pointed, 
fnll of ing^enioas tarns, and often admirablf expressed. It seems to 
have anticipated a century in its style. Sir Egkrton Brtdoes.J 



WHENCE COMES MY LOVE ? 
JOHN HARINGTON. 

Whence comes my love ? — O heart ! disclose : 
'Twas from her cheeks that shame the rose. 
From lips that spoil the rubys praise. 
From eyes that mock the diamonds blaze. 
Whence comes my love, as freely own ; 
Ah me ! 'twas from a heart like stone. 

The blushing cheek speaks modest mind ; 
The lips, befitting words most kind ; 
The eyes does tempt to love's desire. 
And seems to say — 'tis Cupid's fire ! 
Yet all so fair, but speak my moan, 
Sith nought doth say the heart of stone* 



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SONGS OF ENGLAND AND IRELAND. 13 

Why thus, my love, so kind bespeak 
Sweet lip, sweet eye, sweet blushing cheek ; 
Yet not a heart to save iny pain ? 
O Venus ! take thy gifts again : 
Make not so fair, to cause our moan. 
Or make a heart thats like our own. 



[Supposed to have been written by the father of the celebrated Sir 
John Harington. See Park's Edition of Ritson's English Songs, vol. i. 
p. 165. Dr. Aikin in his ** Vocal Poetry," Svo. 1810, and Geo. Ellis in 
his *' Early English Poets," vol. 2, p. 284, have printed it as Sir Joha 
llarington's.] 



A WOMAN'S FACE. 

HUMFREY GIFFORD. 
Born about 1550. 

A woman's face is full of wiles. 
Her tears are like the crocodil : 

With outward cheer on thee she smiles. 
When in her heart she thinks thee ill. 

Her tongue still chats of this and that. 
Than aspine leaf it wags more fast ; 

And as she talks she knows not what. 
There issues many a truthless blast. 

Thou far dost take thy mark amiss. 
If thou think faith in them to find ; 

The weather-cock more constant is. 
Which turns about with every wind. 



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14 SONGS OF ENGLAND AND IBELAND. 

I know some pepper-nosed dame 
Will term me fool and saucy jack. 

That dare their credit so defame. 
And lay such slanders on their back : 

What though on me they pour their spite ; 

I may not use the gloser's trade, 
I cannot say the crow is white. 

But needs must call a spade a spade. 



[From ** A Poesie of Gilliflowers, eche difVering from ofher in colour 
and odoar, yet all sweete/' London, 1580. 4to. Black Letter. See 
Ellis*8 Specimens, vol. 2, p. 173.] 



O FOR A BOWL OF FAT CANARY. 
JOHN LYLIE [or LILLY.] 
Bom abont 1553— Died 1600. 

O for a bowl of fat Canary, 
Rich Palermo, sparkling sherry. 

Some nectar else from Juno's dairy ; 
O these draughts would make us merry ! 

O for a wench (I deal in faces 

And in other didntier things). 
Tickled am I with her embraces ; 

Fine dancing in such fairy rings. 

O for a plump fat leg of mutton. 
Veal, lamb, capon, pig and coney ; 

None h happy but a glutton. 
None an ass but who wants money. 



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SOKC^ OF BNGI«4ND AND IRELAND. 15 

C0ORUS. 

Wines indeed, and girls are good. 
But brave victuals feast the blood. 
For wenches, wine and lusty cheer, 
Jove would leap down to surfeit here. 



[From " Alexander and Campaspe.*' Tbe tbHajm of Lilly were re- 
published in 1032, under the title of '* Six Court Comedies.'* See 
Ellis's Specimens, vol. 2, p. 811.] 



LOVE FOR LOVE. 

FULKE GREVILLE, LORD BROOKE. 
Bom 1564--Died 1688. 

Away with these self-loving lads. 

Whom Cupid's arrow never glads ! 

Away poor souls that sigh and weep. 

In love of those that lie asleep ! 
For Cupid is a merry god. 
And forceth none to kiss the rod. 

Sweep Cupid's shafts like destiny 

Do causeless good or ill decree ; 

Desert is borne out of his bow. 

Reward upon his wing doth go ! 

What fools are they that have not known. 
That Love likes no laws but his own. 



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16 SONGS OF ENGLAND AND IRELAND. 

My songs they be of Cynthia's praise, 

I wear her rings on holidays. 

In every tree I write her name. 

And every day I read the same. 
Where Honour Cupid's rival is. 
There miracles are seen of his ! 

If Cynthia crave her ring of me, 
I blot her name out of the tree : 
If doubt do darken things held dear. 
Then well-fare nothing once a year ! 

For many run, but one must win ! 

Fools only hedge the cuckoo in. 

The worth that worthiness should move 

Is love, that is the bow of Love ; 

And love as well the foster* can. 

As can the mighty noble-man. 

Sweet saint, 'tis true, you worthy be : 
Yet, without love, nought worth to me. 



[" Servant to Queen Elizabeth, Counsellor to King James, and 
friend to Sir Philip Sidney.** Such was the inscription this well 
koown character wished placed on his tomb.] 



* An old contraction for forester. 



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SONGS OF ENGLAND AND IRELAND. 17 

PHILLIDA AND CORYDON. 

NICHOLAS BRETON. 

Born about 1555. 

In the merrie month of Maye 
In a morne by break of daye 
With a troope of damsels playing 
Forthe— 'I yode*— forsooth a maying 

When anon by a wood side. 
Where as Maye was in his pride 
I espied all alone, 
Phillida and Corydon. 

Much adoe there was, god wot ; 
He wold love and she wold not. 
She sayde, never man was trewe ; 
He sayes, none was false to you. 

He sayde, hee had lovde her longe : 
She sayes, love should have no wronge. 
Corydon wold kisse her then : 
She sayes, maydes must kisse no men. 

Tyll they doe for good and ail- 
When she made the shepperde call 
All the heavens to wytnes truthe. 
Never loved a truer youthe. 



* I went, 
c 



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IB 80NOS OF ENGLAND AND IRELAND. 

Then with manie a prettie othe. 
Yea and nay, and faith and trothe ; 
Such as seelie* shepperdes use 
When they will not love abuse ; 

Love, that had bene long deluded. 
Was with kisses sweete concluded ; 
And Phillida with garlands gaye 
Was made the lady of the Maye. 



[This little pastoral song was anng before Queen Elizabeth at Elve- 
thsjn in Hampshire— as she opened the casement of her gallery win- 
dow in the morning, by '* three excellent mnsitianSt disguised in 
auDdent country attire." See Percy's Reliques, vol. 3, p. 105« whose 
vcnion I have followed in preference to that given in England's He- 
ItcoDr which is here subjoined. 

In the merry month of May, 
In a mome by break of day, 
FOrtii I walk'd by the wood-side. 
When as May was in his pride : 
There I espied all alone, 
Phillida and Corydon. ^ 

Much a doo there was, God wot. 
He would love and she would not. 
She said never man was true. 
He said, none was false to you. 
He said he had lou'd her long. 
She said. Love should have no wrong. 
C!oridon would kiss her then, 
She said, middes must kiss no men. 
Till they did for good and all : 
Then she made the shepherd call 
All the heavens to witnesse truth : 
Neuer lou'd a truer youth. 
Thus with many a pretty oath. 
Yea and nay, and faith and troath. 



Silly. 



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SONGS OF ENGLAND AND IJKBLAND. 19 

Such as ailly sbepbeards use 
When tliej win not Love abase. 
Lone which bad beene long deladed. 
Was with kisses sweet concladed. 
And PhiUida with garlands gay. 
Was made the lady of the May.— N. Brbton.'] 
Finis. 



TIME BREEDETH CHANGE. 

ROBERT GREENE. 

Born about I660— Died 109s. 

In time we see the silver drops 
The craggy stones make soft ; 

The slowest snail in time we see 
Doth creep and climb aloft. 

With feeble puffs the tallest pine 

In tract of time doth fall ; 
The hardest heart in time doth yield 

To Venus' luring call. 

Where chilling frost alate did nip. 

There flasheth now a fire ; 
Where deep disdain bred noisome hate. 

There kindleth now desire. 

Time causeth hope to have his hap : 
What care in time not eas'd ? 

In time I loathM that now I love 
In both content and pleased. 



[There is great beanty lOMnt the smaller poems of Greene. His 
poetical works were reprinted lately under the carefol superinten- 
dence of Mr. Dyce.] 



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20 SONGS OF ENGLAND AND IRELAND. 



SONG. 

Take, ob take those lips away. 
That so sweetly were forsworn ; 

And those eyes the break of day. 
Lights that do mislead the mom : 

But my kisses bring again. 

Seals of love, but seal'd in vain. 

Hide, oh hide those hills of snow. 
Which thy frozen bosom bears. 

On whose tops the pinks that grow. 
Are of those that April wears : 

But first set my poor heart free. 

Bound in those icy chuns by thee. 



[The first stanza of this exquisite little songr, is quoted by Shak. 
peare, in " Measure for Measure.*' But both the stanxas are found 
in one of Beaumont and Fletcher's plays, The Bloody Brother, or 
RoUo Duke of Normandy, Act t. scene S. It has been attributed to 
Shakspeare, but without any apparent foundation. Mr. Weber thinks 
the first stanza Shakspeare's, the last Fletcher's. Georg^e Ellis has 
printed the whole as the composition of Beaumont and Fletcher ! ] 



SONG IN LOVE'S LABOUR'S LOST. 

SHAKSPEARE. 

Bom 1564— Died I6l6. 

When dusies pied, and violets blue. 
And lady-smocks all silver white. 

And cuckoo-buds of yellow hue. 
Do paint the meadows with delight. 



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SONGS OF ENGLAND AND IRELAND. 21 

The cuckoo then on every tree. 
Mocks married men, for thus sings he. 

Cuckoo ; 
Cuckoo, cuckoo, — O word of fear, 
Unpleasing to a married ear ! 

When shepherd's pipe on oaten straws. 
And merry larks are ploughmen's clocks. 

When turtles tread, and rooks, and daws. 
And maidens bleach their summer smocks. 

The cuckoo then, on every tree. 

Mocks married men, for thus sings he. 
Cuckoo ; 

Cuckoo, cuckoo ; — O word of fear, 

Unpleasing to a married ear ! 



[For " Caekoo-bods," la the third line, Dr. Farmer proposed as the 
tme reading, ** cowslip bads.*'] 



SONG IN LOVE'S LABOUR'S LOST. 



SHAKSPEARE. 

When icicles hang by the wall. 

And Dick the shepherd blows his nail. 

And Tom bears logs into the hall. 
And milk comes frozen home in pail. 

When blood is nipp'd, and ways be foul. 

Then nightly sings the staring owl. 



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22 SONGS OF ENGLAND AND IRSLAND. 

To-who 5 
Tu-wbit, to-who, a mcny note 
While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.* 

When all aloud the wind doth blow. 

And coughing drowns the parson's saw. 
And birds sit brooding in the snow. 

And Marian's nose looks red and raw» 
When roasted crabs hiss in the bowl. 
Then nightly sings the staring owl, 

To-who ; 
Tu-whit, to-who, a merry note. 
While greasy Joan doth keel the pot. 



SONG IN THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. 
SHAKSPEARE. 

Who is Silvia ? what is she. 
That all our swains commend her ^ 

Holy, fair, and wise is she : 
The heavens such grace did lend her> 

That she might admired be. 

Is she kind, as she is fair ? 

For beauty lives with kindness : 
Love doth to her eyes repair. 

To help him of his blindness ; 
And, being help'd, inhabits there. 

* SKim the pot, an expreuioii common in Ireland. 



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SONGS OF JBNGLAND AND IRELAND. 23 

Then to Silvia let us smg. 

That Silvia is excelling ; 
She excels each loortal thing. 

Upon the dull earth dwelUng : 
To her let us garlands bring. 



SONG IN KING HENRY VIII. 
8HAKSPEARE. 

Orpheus, with his lute made trees, 
And the mountun tops that freeze. 

Bow themselves when he did sing : 
To his music, plants, and flowers. 
Ever sprung ; as sun, and showers. 

There had been a lasting spring. 

Every thing that heard him play. 
Even the billows of the sea. 

Hung their heads, and then lay by. 
In sweet music is such art ; • 
Killing care Mid grief of heart. 

Fall asleep, or, hearing die. 



SONG IN CYMBELINE. 
SHAKSPEARE. 



Hark ! hark I the lark at Heaven's gate sings, 

And Phoebus 'gins arise. 
His steeds to water at tho^ springs 

On chalic'd flowers that lies ; 



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24 SONGS OF ENGLAND AND IRELAND. 

And winking Mary-buds begin 
To ope their golden eyes ; 

With every thing that pretty bin : 
My lady sweet arise ; 
Arise> arise. 



[ Sang by Cloten't mnsicUms under the window of Imofen. Wath- 
in^ton Irving when he mode hit pUgrimftfl^ to Stnttford-apon-ATon, 
tells OS that * Shakspeare's exquisite UtUe Soor* was called to his 
mind when he saw a lark ponrinr forth its torrents of melody in the 
bright and fleecy eXoni, above him.] 



YOUTH AND AGE. 
SHAKSPEARE. 

Crabbed Age and Youth 

Cannot live together ; 
Youth is fuil of pleasance. 

Age is full of care : 
Youth like summer mom. 

Age like winter weather. 
Youth like summer brave. 

Age like winter bare ; 
Youth is full of sport. 
Ages breath is short ; 

Youth is nimble. Age is lame : 
Youth is hot and bold. 
Age is weak and cold ; 

Youth is wild and Age is tame. 
Age, I do abhor thee. 
Youth, I do adore thee ; 



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SONGS OF ENGIJLND AND IRE! 



Op my loTei mj loye m ] 
A^e I do defie thee i 
Oh sweet shepherd, hie th 

For iDetliinli^ thou fitay: 




[PriPtpd in the '* PassiODate PilgTim/'' by Sh& 
aie«ii.&/^ MiyB PefTT, *' intended for tbe month of "N 
CDfnpw^tiye merits of ;'Dut!:ifu] Adonla and aged 
*< FftDcies chute find noble/^ 16;^, allndea to ^t, wi 
o^^sntiLDlty tD caU U " a despicable dittf <**] 



THI PRAISE OF A COUKTE^litA 
joffN gh:alkb:ill. 

Oh ! tlie £weeC conteatment 
The countryman doth find. 

High tTolollie> lollie, loe, high tf 

That quiet contemplation^ 
Pofifiesseth all my mind : 

Then, care away, and wend alou^ 

For comtB are full of flattery, 
Aa httth too oft been try'd. 

The city full of wantonness, 
And both are full of pride : 

Theii^ care away, and wend aloi^i 

But^ ob the honest eouDtryman 
Speak El truly from his heart. 

His pride h in his tillage. 
His horses and hig cart t 

Then, care away, and wend alon| 



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26 SONGS OF ENGLAND AND IR£LAND. 

Our clothing is good sheep-skins. 

Gray russet for our wives, 
'Tis warmth, and not gay clothing. 

That doth prolong our lives : 
Then, care away, and wend along with me. 

The ploughman though he labour hard. 

Yet on the holy-day 
No emperor so merrily 

Does pass his time away : 
Then, care away, and wend along with me. 

To recompense our tillage 
The heavens afford us showers. 

And for our sweet refreshments 
The earth affords us bowers : 

Then, care away, and wend along with me. 

The cuckoo and the nightingale. 

Full merrily do sing. 
And with their pleasant roundelayes. 

Bid welcome to the spring : 
Then, care away, and wend along with me. 

This is not half the happiness 

The countryman enjoys. 
Though others think they have as much. 

Yet he that says so, lies : 
Then, come away, turn countryman with me. 



[Found in Walton's Angler, 1053. Who Chalkl^ wu has been a 

matter of much dispute, by some he is supposed to be Walton himself ; 

but Walton, who published his poem called Thealma and Clearchus, 

by John Chalkhill, calls him a friend of Spenser's. The chorus, ** High 

' troloUie,*' &c. is repeated as the third line of every verse.] 



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SONGS OF KNGLAND Aim IRBLANP. 



YOU MEANER BEAUTIES. 



SIR HENRY WOTTON. 
Bom 1598— I>ie4 1630. 

You meaner beauties of the night. 
Which poorly satisfy our eyes 

More by your number than your light ; 
You common people of the skies. 
What are you when the Moon* shall rise ? 

Ye violets that first appear. 

By your pure purple mantles known. 
Like the proud virgins of the year. 

As if the spring were all your own ; 

What are you when the Rose is blown ? 

Ye curious chanters of the wood. 
That warble forth dame Nature's layes. 

Thinking your passion's understood 
By your weak accents ; what's your praise. 
When Philomel her voice shall raise ? 



* " San" is the reading in the Reliqoise Wottoniann. The alteration 
I believe is Percy's, from a MS. copy. 



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28 SONGS OF ENGLAND AND IRELAND. 

So, when my mistress shall be seen 
In sweetness of her looks and mind ; 

By virtue first, then choice a queen ; 
Tell me, if she was not designed 
Th' eclipse and glory of her kind ? 



C" Written, on that amiable princess, Elizabeth, daughter of James I. 
and wife of the Elector Palatine, who was chosen King of Bohemia, 

Sept. 5, 1619." PBRC7. 

In Chambers' Scottish Songs, vol. ii. p. 31, this beaatifal song is 
printed witii three additional Yerses, and attributed to Lord Damiey, 
" written it is said in praise of the beaaty of Qaeen Mary, before their 
marriage." These are the other yerses, Mr. Chambers prints them 
from an old copy :— 

Yon glancing jewels of the East, 
Whose estimation fancies raise. 

Pearls, mbies, sapphires, and the rest 
Of glittering gems what is your praise. 
When the bright diamond shows his rays i 

But ah I poor light, gem, v«ice, and sound. 

What are ye if my Mary shine i 
Moon, diamond, flowers, and Philomel, 

Light, lustre, scent, and music tine. 

And yield to merit more diyine. 

The rose, and lily, the whole spring. 
Unto her breath for sweetness speed ; 

The diamond darkens in the ring ; 
When she appears, the moon looks dead. 
As when Sol lifts his radiant head. 

In a Utile publication bearing date l663, entitled, " A crew of Kind 
J^ndon Gossips, to which is added ingenious poems,*' the last verse 
of the additions is found, the rhyme in the second line is made * run,* 
and the two last lines are thus giyen :— 

If she appear the moons undone. 
As in tiie presence of the sun. 
Iliere can be no good grounds for printing the song as Lord 
Darnley's ! ] 



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SONGS OF ENGLAND AND IRELAND. 29 

THE CHARACTER OF A HAPPY LIFE. 
SIR HENRY WOTTON. 

How happy is be born or taugbt. 

That servetb not another's will ; 
Whose armour is bis honest thought. 

And simple truth bis highest skill : 

Whose passions not bis masters are ; 

Whose soul is still prepared for death ; 
Not ty'd unto the world with care 

Of prince's ear, or vulgar breath : 

Who bath bis life from rumours freed ; 

Whose conscience is his strong retreat : 
Whose state can neither flatterers feed. 

Nor ruin make oppressors great : 

Who envies none, whom chance doth raise. 

Or vice : who never understood 
How deepest wounds are given with praise ; 

Nor rules of state, but rules of good ; 

Who God doth late and early pray 
More of his grace than gifts to lend ; 

And entertains the harmless day 
With a well chosen book or friend. 

This man is freed from servile bands 

Of hope to rise, or fear to fall ; 
Lord of himself, though not of lands ; 

And having nothing, yet hath all. 



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30 SONGS OF ENGLAND AND IRELAND. 

THE BAIT. 

JOHN DONNE. 

Born 1574— Died l63I. 

Come live with me and be my love. 
And we will some new pleasures prove. 
Of golden sands, and crystal brooks. 
With silken lines, and silvar hooks. 

There will the river whispering run, 
Warm'd by thy eyes more than the sun ; 
And there th' innamour'd* fish will stay. 
Begging themselves they may betray. 

When thou wilt swim in that live bath. 
Each fish, which every channel hath. 
Most amorously to thee will swim. 
Gladder to catch thee, than thou him. 

If thou, to be so seen, be'st loath. 
By sun or moon, thou dark'nest both ; 
And if mine eyes have leave to see, 
I need not their light, having thee. 

Let others freeze with angling reeds. 
And cut their legs vrith shells and weeds. 
Or treacherously poor fish beset 
With strangling snares, or windowy net ; 

* Walton, who was a good Jadge of llsb, reads *' enamell'd.* 



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SONGS OF ENGLAND AND IRELAND. 31' 

Let coarse bold hands, from felimy nest. 
The bedded fish in banks outwrest ; 
Let curkras tnutors sleave silk fiies. 
Bewitch poor fishes' wand'ring eyes ; 

For thee thou need'st no such deceit. 
For thou thyself art thine own bait ; 
That fish that is not catch'd thereby, 
Alas, is wiser far than L 



[From Donne's Works, 1635 : It is in imitation of Marlowe's Shep- 
herd's song. Isaak Walton, in his Angler, says, " I will speak yon a 
copy of yerses that were &iade by Dr. Donne, and made to shew the 
world tliat he could make soft and smooth verses when he thought 
smoothness worth his laboar j and I love them better, because they 
allude to rivers, lish, and Ushing." Walton reckons them among the 
" choice verses of other days."] 



TO C E L I A. 
BEN JONSON. 

Bom 1574— Died 1837. 



Drink to me only with thine eyes. 

And I will pledge with mine. 
Or leave a kiss but in the cup. 

And I'll not look for wine : 
The thirst that from the soul doth rise. 

Doth ask a drink dinne. 
But might I of Jove's nectar sup, 

I would not change for thine. 



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3^ SONGS OF ENGLAND AND IRELAND. 

I sent thee late a rosy wreath. 

Not so much honouring thee. 
As giving it a chance* that there 

It could not wither'd be : 
But thou thereon didst only breathe. 

And sent'st it back to me, 
Since when it grows and smells, I swear. 

Not of itself, but thee. 



[" Of this 8onr/' says Ritson, ** Anacreon, had Anacreon written in 
English, need not have been ashamed." 

Richard Cnmberland tells ns that the thoughts are poached firom an 
*' obscnre collection of love-letters, written by the sophist Pliilostra- ^ 
tos.'* To those who are cnrions in Greek, we refer them to the 
Observer, No. Ixziv. ; and Gifford's Ben Jonson, vol. 8, p. SG7, where 
they will see the origin of this song explained in several pages. 

Jonson is certainly indebted for the idea to the old Greek, but who, 
save Jonson, could have rendered the thoughts so gracefully ? 

Herrick wrote an address to " The Water Nymphs drinking at a 
fountain," much in the spirit of the first verse :— 



Reach with your whiter hands to me 

Some crystal of the spring; 
And I about the cup shall see 

Fresh lilies flourishing: 

Or else, sweet nymphs, do you but this ; 

To th' glass your lips incline { 
And 1 shall see by that one kiss 

The water tnm'd to wine.] 



* Mr. Gilford reads " hope.* 



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SONGS OF ENGLAND AND IRELAND. 33 



THE SWEET NEGLECT. 



BEN JONSON. 

Still to be neat, still to be drest. 

As you were going to a feast : 

Still to be powder'd, still perfum'd : 

Lady, it is to be presum'd. 

Though art's hid causes are not found. 

All is not sweet, all is not sound. 

Give me .a look, give me a face. 

That makes simplicity a grace ,* 

Robes loosely flowing, hair as free : 

Such sweet neglect more taketh me, 

Than all tV adulteries of art ; 

They* strike mine eyes but not mine heart. 



[This yery line aong ii found in the first act of the " Silent Woman ." 
It is in imitation of some Latin yerses which the reader will find 
given in Mr. Giflbrd's edition of Jonson, yol. 3, p. 347. Flecknoe, the 
learned Editor tells us caught a gleam of sense from them : 

Giye me the eyes, give me the face. 
To which no art can a4d a grace. 
And me the looks, no garb nor dress. 
Can ever make more fair, or less. 

Address to the Duchess of Richmond.'\ 



* Percy reads " that.» 
D 



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34 SOUOS OF JBNOLAND AND IRELAND. 



TO CELIA. 



BEN JON80N. 

Come, my Cdia, let us prove. 
While we can the sports of love ; 
Time will not be ours for ever : 
He, at length, our good will sever. 
Spend not then his gifts in vain. 
Suns that set, may rise again ; 
But if once we lose this light, 
'Tis with us perpetual night. 
Why should we defer our joys ? 
Fame and rumour are but toys. 
Cannot we delude the eyes 
Of a few poor household spies ? 
Or his easier ears beguile. 
Thus removed by our wile ? 
'Tis no sin love's fruit to steal. 
But the sweet thefts to reveal : 
To be taken, to be seen. 
These have crimes accounted been. 



[Sung in the Fox. Gifford calls it a '* very elegant and happj imi- 
tation of particular passages in Catullus."] 



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SOKOS OF ENGLAND AND IltEIrAND. 35 



WOMEN ARE BUT MEN'S SHADOWS. 
BEN JONSON. 

Follow a shadow, it still flies you. 

Seem to fly it» it will pursue: 
So court a mistress, she denies you ; 

Let her alone, she will court you. 
Say are not women truly, then, 
StylM but the shadows of us men ? 

At mom and evai shades are longest ; 

At noon they are or short, or none : 
So men at wetJcest, they are strongest. 

But grant us perfect, they're not known. 
Say are not women truly, then, 
Styl'd but the shadows of us men. 



WHAT JUST EXCUSE. 



BEN JONSON. 



What just excuse had aged Time, 
His weary limbs now to have eased. 

And sate him down without his crime. 
While every thought was so much pleased ! 



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S6 SONGS OF ENGLAND AND IRELAND. 

But he 80 greedy to devour 

His own, and all that he brings forth. 
Is eating every piece of hour. 

Some object of the rarest worth — 
Yet this is rescued by his rage. 
As not to die by time, or age : 
For beauty hath a living name. 
And will to heaven, from whence it came. 



[Sung after the last Masque Dance in " Loye freed from Ifnoraace 
«nd Pollf."] 



OH DO NOT WANTON. 
BEN J0N80N. 

Oh do not wanton with those eyes. 

Lest I be sick with seeing ; 
Nor cast them down, but let them rise. 

Lest shame destroy their being. 

O be not angry with those fires. 
For then their threats will kill me; 

Nor look too kind on my desires. 
For then my hopes will spill me. 

O do not steep them in thy tears. 
For so will sorrow slay me ; 

Nor spread them as distract with fears; 
Mine own enough betray me. 



[Mr. Giflbrd writes—" With respect to the present song, if it be not 
th€ most beaotifol in the langoage, I fireely confess, for my own part, 
Ibiit I know not where it is to be found." Glflford»s Ben Jonson. 
vol. 8, p. 319.] 



I 



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BONGS OF ENGLAND AND IRELAND. ' 37 



DANCING SONG. 



BEN JONSON. 

Come on^ come on ! and where you go. 
So interweave the curious knot. 

As ev'n the observer scarce may know 
Which lines are Pleasure's, and which not. 

First figure out the doubtful way. 
At which a while all youth should stay. 

Where she and Virtue did contend 
Which should have Hercules to friend. 

Then as all actions of mankind 

Are but a labyrinth or maze : 
So let your dances be entwined. 

Yet not perplex men unto gaze : 

But measured, and so numerous too. 
As men may read each act they do ; 

And when they see the graces meet 
Admire the wisdom of your feet. 

For dancing is an exercise. 
Not only shows the mover's wit. 

But maketh the beholder wise. 
As he hath power to rise to it. 



[Sang by ** Daedalus the wise," before the first dance in the Masqae 
of •* Pleasure reconciled to Virtue."] 



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38 SONOS OF ENOhASD ASJ> IRBCAND. 



ROBIN GOOD-FELLOW. 

From Oberon, in fairye land. 

The king of ghosts and shadowes there. 
Mad Robin I, at his command. 
Am sent to riewe the night-sports here. 

WhiAt revell rout 

Is kept about. 
In every comer where I go, 

I will o'ersee. 

And merry bee. 
And make good sport, with ho, ho, ho ! 

More swift than lightning can I 4ye 

About this aery w^in soone. 
And, in a minutes space, descrye 
Each thing that's done belowe the moone. 

There's not a hag 

Or ghost shall wag. 
Or cry, ware Goblins ! where I go ; 

ftiARobinl 

Hieir feats will spy. 
And send them home, with ho, ho, ho ! 

Whene'er such wanderers I meete. 

As from their night-sports they trudge home, 
"With counterfeiting voice I greete 
And call them on, with me to roame 
Thro* woods, thro' lakes. 
Thro' bogs, thro' brakes ; 



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SONOa OF ENGLAND AND IRELAND. 39 

Or else, unseene with them I go. 

All in the nicke 

To play some tricke 
And froUcke it, with ho, ho, ho ! 

Sometimes I meete them like a man ; 

Sometimes an ox, sometimes a hound ; 
And to a horse I turn me can ; 
To trip and trot about them round. 
But if to ride 
My backe they stride. 
More swift than wind away I go, 
Ore hedge and lands. 
Thro' pools and ponds 
I whirry, laughing, ho, ho, ho ! 

When lads and lasses merry be, 

With possets and with juncates fine; 
Unseene of all the company, 
I eat their cakes and sip their wine ; 
And to make sport, 

I and snort ; 

And out the candles I do blow. 
The maides I kiss. 
They shrieke — who's this ! . 
I answer nought, but ho, ho, ho ! 

Yet now and then, the maids to please. 

At midnight I card up their wooll ; 
And while they sleepe, and take their ease. 
With wheel to threads their flax I pull. 
I grind at mill 
Their malt up still i 



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40 , SONGS OF ENGLAND AND IRELAND. 

I dress their hemp, I spin their tow. 

If any 'wake. 

And would me take, 
I wend me laughing, ho, ho, ho ! 

When house or harth doth sluttish lye, 
I pinch the maidens black and blue ; 
The bed-clothes from the bedd pull I, 
And lay them naked all to new. 
'Twixt sleepe and wake, 
I do them take. 
And on the key-cold floor them throw. 
If out they cry. 
Then forth I fly. 
And loudly laugh out, ho, ho, ho ! 

When any need to borrowe ought. 

We lend them what they do require : 
And for the use demand we nought ; 
Our owne is all we do desire. 

Jf to repay. 

They do delay. 
Abroad amongst them then I go ; 

And night by night, 

I them affright 
With pinchings, dreames, and ho, ho, ho ! 

When lazie queans have nought to do. 

But study how to cog and lye ; 

To make debate and mischief too, 

'Twixt one another secretlye : 

I wark their gloze,* 

And it disclose, 

* Cantiogr* dissimolatlon. 



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SONGS OF ENGLAND AND IRELAND. 41 

To them whom they have wronged so ; 

When I have done, 

I get me gone. 
And leave them scolding, ho, ho, ho ! 

When men do traps and engins set 

In loop holes where the vermine creepe. 
Who from their foldes and houses, get 
Their duckes and geese, and lambesand sheepe : 

I spy the gin. 

And enter in. 
And seeme a vermine taken so ; 

But when they there. 

Approach me neare, 
I leap out laughing, ho, ho, ho ! 

By wells and rills, in meadowes greene. 
We nightly dance our hey-day guise ; 
And to our faerye king and queene 
We chant our moonlight minstrelsies. 

When larks 'gin sing. 

Away we fling ; 
And babes new bom steal as we go. 

And elfe in bed. 

We leave instead 
And wend us laughing, ho, ho, ho ! 

From hag-bred Merlin's time have I 

Thus nightly revell'd to and fro : 

And for my pranks men call me by 

The name of Robin Good-fellow. 

Fiends, ghosts, and sprites. 

Who haunt the nightes. 



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80N08 OF ENGLAND AND IRELAND. 

The hags and goblins do me know ; 

And beldames old 

My feates have told ; 
So, Vale, Vale ; ho, ho, ho ! 



[This aong which is attributed to Ben Jonson, I print from Percy's 
ReUques, vol. 3, p. 354. [Ed. 1811.] 

Hie form of Robin Good-Fellow, Sir Joshna Rejmolds has painted 
for US, his doiagt are admirably told above.] 



THE FAIRY QUEEN. 

Come, follow, follow me. 

You, fairy elves that be : 

Which circle on the greene. 

Come follow Mab your queene. 
Hand in hand let's dance around. 
For this place is fairye ground. 

When mortals are at rest. 

And snoring in their nest ,* 

Unheard and unespy'd. 

Through key-holes we do glide ; 
Over tables, stools, and shelves. 
We trip it with our fairy elves. 

And, if the house be foul 

With platter, dish, or bowl. 

Up stairs we nimbly creep. 

And find the sluts asleep : 
Then we pinch their armes and thighes ; 
None escapes, nor none espies. 



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80NG« OF ENGLAND AND IRELAND. 43 

But, if the house be swept. 

And from uncleanness kept. 

We praise the household maid. 

And duely she is paid : 
For we use before we goe 
To drop a tester in her shoe. 

Upon a mushroomes head 

Our table cloth we spread ; 

A grain of rye, or wheat. 

Is manchet, which we eat ; 
Pearly drops of dew we drink 
In acorn cups filPd to the brink. 

The brains of nightingales. 

With unctuous fat of snailes. 

Between two cockles stew'd. 

Is meat that's easily chew'd ; 
Tailes of wormes, and marrow of mice 
Do make a dish that^s wonderous nice. 

Hie grasshopper, gnat, and fly. 

Serve for our minstrelsie ; 

Grace said, we dance awhile. 

And s6 the time beguile : 
And if the moon doth hide her head. 
The glow-worm lights us home to bed. 

On tops of dewy grass 

So nimbly do we pass. 

The young and tender stalk 

Ne'er bends when we do walk : 
Yet in the morning may be seen 
Where we the night before have been. 

[Printed from Percy's text. Its author has been well acquainted 
with the " Robin Goodf^ow*' in the page before.] 



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44 , 80N08 OP ENGLAND AND IRELAND. 



CLOUDS AWAY. AND WELCOME DAY. 

THOMAS HBYWOOD. 
BOTn about 1580. 

Pack clouds away, and welcome day. 
With night we banish sorrow ; 

Sweet air blow soft» mount larks aloft. 
To give my love good morrow. 

Wings from the wind to please her mind. 
Notes from the lark Fll borrow; 

Bird prune thy wing, nightingale sing. 
To give my love good morrow. 
To give my love good morrow. 
Notes from them both Pll borrow. 

Wake from thy nest, Robin-red-breast, 

Sing birds in every furrow ; 
And from each hill, let music shrilly 

Give my fair love good morrow. 
Black bird, and thrush, in every bush. 

Stare, linnet and cock-sparrow ! 
You pretty elves, amongst yourselves. 

Sing my fair love good-morrow. 

To give my love good-morrow. 

Sing birds in every furrow. 



[From « Pleasant Oialogaes and Dramas, &c." 1607.] 



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SONGS OF ENGLAND AND IRELAND. 45 



TELL ME DEAREST. 

BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER. 

Born 1586— Died I6l5. Bom 157&— Died 1535. 
\ 
P. Tell me dearest what is love ? 

M. 'Tis a lightning from above ; 

'Tis an arrow, 'tis a fire, 
'Tis a boy they call Desire 
Both, Tis a grave 

Gapes to have 

Those poor fools that long to prove. 

/" 

P. Tell me more are women true ? 

M. Yes, some are, and some as you. 

Some are willing, some are strange. 
Since you men first taught to change 

Both. And till troth 

Be in both, 
All shall love, to love anew. 

P. Tell me more yet, can they grieve ? 

M. Yes, and sicken sore, but live ! 

And be wise, and delay 
When you men are wise as they 

Both, Then I see. 

Faith will be. 
Never till they both believe. 



[From the Comedy of " The Captain/* Act 2, Scene 2. Part of it is 



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46 SONGS OF ENGLAND AND IRBJLANO* 

found in the ** Knight of the Boming Pestle/' Act 3, Scene 8, standing 
thas: 

Jaap. Tell me dearest what is lore ) 

Luce. "lis a lightning from above j 

Tis an arrow, 'tis a flre, 
Tis a boy they call Desire, 
'lis a smile 
Doth beguile 
Jasp. The poor hearts of men that prore. 

Tell me more are women true i 
Luce, Some love change and so do you. 

Jasp» Are they fair and never kind ? 

Luce, Yes, when men turn with the wind. 

Jasp. Are they froward. 

Luce. Ever toward 

Those that love, to love anew. 



It is a very common question with our old poets, " What is love.'* 
See Greene's Woiks, vol. 2, p. 276. Dnunmond of Hawthomden's 
Poems, Ed. 1838, p. 2S0, and Raleigh's Poems, by Brydges, p. 20.] 



DRINKING SONG. 
BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER. 

Drink to day and drown all sorrow. 
You shall perhaps not do it to-morrow. 
Best while you have it use your breath ; 
There is no drinking after death. 

Wine wakes the heart up, wakes the wit, 
There is no cure 'gainst age but it. 
It helps the head-ache, cough and ptisic. 
And is for all diseases physic. 



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80N08 OF BNOIiAKD AND IRELAND. 47 

Then let us swill, boys, for our health ; 
Who drinks well, loves the commonwealth. 
And he that will to bed go sober 
Falls with the leaf, still in October. 



[From the " Bloody Brother, or Rollo, Duke of Normandy," Act s, 
Scene 9.] 



TO LOVE. 



JOHN FLETCHER. 



Merciless love, whom Nature hath denied 
The use of eyes, lest thou shouldst take a pride. 
And glory in thy murders, why am I, 
That never yet transgress^ thy deity. 
Never broke vow, from whose eyes never flow 
Disdainful dart, whose hard heart never slow. 
Thus ill-rewarded? Thou art young and fair. 
Thy mother soft and gentle as the air. 
Thy holy fire still burning, blown with prayer : 
Then everlasting Love, restrain thy will ; 
Tib godlike to have power but not to kill. 



[From " The Chances, *' Act 2, Scene 2.] 



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48 SONGS OF ENGLAND AND IRELAND. 



LAY A GARLAND. 
BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER. 

Lay a garland on my hearse 

Of the dismal yew ; 
Maidens willow branches bear — 

Say, I died true. 

My love was false, but I was firm 
From my hour of birth , 

Upon my buried body Ue 
Lightly, gentle earth. 

[Saogr hj Aspatia in " The Maid's Tragedj."] 



A SONG TO THE LUTE. 
JOHN FLETCHER. 

Dearest, do not you delay me. 

Since, thou know'st, I must be gone ; 
Wind and tide, 'tis thought doth stay me. 
But 'tis wind that must be blown 
From that breath, whose native smell 
Indian odours doth excel. 

Oh, then speak, thou fairest fair. 

Kill not him that vows to serve thee ; 
But perfume this neighbouring air 
Else dull silence sure, will starve me : 
'Tis a word that's quickly spoken. 
Which being restrained, a heart is broken. 

[From the ** Spanish Carate," Act 9, Scene 4.] 



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SONGS OF ENGLAND AND IRELAND. 49 

MIRTH FIU.S THE VEINS WITH BLOOD. 
BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER. 

*Tis mirth that fills the veins with blood. 

More than wine, or sleep, or food ; 

Let each man keep his heart at ease. 

No man dies of that disease. 

He that would his body keep 

From diseases, must not weep ; 

But whoever laughs and sings. 

Never he his body brings 

Into fevers, gouts, or rheums. 

Or ling'ringly his lungs consumes ; 

Or meets with achet in the bone. 

Or catarrhs, or griping stone ; 

But contented lives for aye j 

The more he laughs the more he may. 



[Sang by Merrythoaght in '* The Knight of the Burning Pestle/* 
Act 2, Scene v.] 



TO HIS MISTRESS. 

FRANqiS BEAUMONT. 



Let fools great Cupid's yoke disdain. 
Loving their own wild freedom better. 

Whilst proud of my triumphant chain 
I sit and court my beauteous fetter. 

VOL. I. E 



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50 SONGS OF ENGLAND AND IRELAND. 

Her murd'ring glances, snaring hairs. 
And her bewitching smiles, so please me. 

As he brings ruin that repairs 
The SNveet afflictions that displease me. 

Hide not' those panting balls of snow 
With envious veils from my beholding ; 

Unlock thpse lips their pearly row 
In a sweet smile of love unfolding. 

And let those eyes, whose motion wheels 
The restless fate of every lover. 

Survey the pains my sick-heart feels 
And wounds themselves have made discover. 



LOVE WILL FIND OUT THE WAY. 

Ov6r the mountains. 

And over the waves ; 
Under the fountains. 

And under the graves ; 
Under floods that are deepest. 

Which Neptune obey ; 
Over rocks that are steepest 

Love virill find out the way. 

Where there is no place 

For the glow-worm to lie ; 
Where there is no space 

For receipt of a fly ; 
Where the midge dares not venture. 

Lest herself fast she lay ; 
If love come, he will enter. 

And soon find out his way. 



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SONGfl OF ENGI«AND XKD IBBliAND. 51 

You may esteem him 

A child for his might ; 
Or you may deem him 

A coward from his flight : 
But if she, whom loire do^ honour. 

Be conceal'd from the day. 
Set a thousand guards upon her. 

Love will find out the way. 

Some think to lose him. 

By having him confin'd. 
And some do suppose him. 

Poor thing to be bfind ; % 
But if ne'er so close ye wall him. 

Do the best that you may. 
Blind love if so ye call him. 

Will find out his way. 

You may train the eagle 

To stoop to your fist 5 
Or you may inveigle 

The phoenix of the East ; 
The lioness, ye may move her 

To give o'er her prey ; 
But you'll ne'er stop a lover : 

He will find out his way. 

[** This excellent song," says Percsy, " is ancient $ but we could 
only give it from a modem copy." Ritson accuses the poetical 
divine of giving it ** some of bis own brilliant touches." These al- 
terations occur in the thirdverse, thus printed by Allan Ramsay in 
the Tea-table Miscellany :— 

You may esteem him 
A child in his force ; 
Or you may deem him 
A coward, which is worse. 
In Forbes' Aberdeen Cantus, 1666, there are some additional stanzas, 
but of no great merit.] 



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52 80NGS OF ENGLAND AND IRELAND. 



BEAUTY INCOMPATIBLE WITH CHASTITY. 

All the materials are the same 

Of beauty and desire. 
In a fair woman's goodly frame 
No brightness is without a flame. 

No flame without a fire. 
Then tell me what those creatures are 
That would be thought both chaste and fair. 

If on her necke her haire be spred 

In many a curious ringe. 
Why half the heat that curies her head 
Will make her madde to be a bed. 

And do the tother thinge. 
Then tell me what those creatures are 
That would be thought both chaste and fair. 

Though modesty itselfe appeare 

With blushes in her face, 
Doest thinke the bloud that dances there 
Can revel it no other where, 
• Nor warm another place ? 

Then tell me what those creatures are 
lliat would be thought both chaste and fair. 

Go ask of thy philosophy. 

What gives her lips the balm. 
What sp'rit gives lightning to her eye 
And makes her breasts to swell so high 

And moystnesse to her palm. 
Then tell me what those creatures are 
That would be thought both chaste and fair. 



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SONGS OF ENGLAND AND IRELAND. 53 

Then be not nice, for that alas 

Betrays thy thoughts and thee : 
I know thou louest, and not one grace 
Adorns thy body or thy face 

But pimpes within for me. 
Then tell me what those creatures are 
That would be thought both chaste and fair. 



[" Iliis song," says Ritson in his Ancient Songs, " is printed by 
Dryden in the third part of his Miscellany Poems, where it is called 
* A New Ballad' : which is certainly a mistake, the following copy 
being given from a MS. in the Harleian Collection (No. 3889) as old 
as Charles the First's time.** See Rit8on*s Ancient Songs.] 



DISPRAISE OF LOVE AND LOVER'S FOLLIES. 
FRANCIS DAVISON. 

If love be life, I long to die. 

Live they that list for me : 
And he that gains the most thereby, 

A fool, at least shall be. 
But he thfiit feels the sorest fits 
Scapes with no less than loss of wits : 

Unhappy life they gain. 

Which lo¥e do entertain. 

In day by fained looks they live. 

By lying dreams by night. 
Each frown a deadly wound doth give. 

Each smile a false delight. 
If 't hap the lady pleasant seem. 
It is for others love they deem : 

If void she seem of joy. 

Disdain doth make her coy. 



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54 SONGS OF ENGLAND AND IRELAND. 

Such is the peace that lovers find, 

Sudi is the life they lead ; 
Blown here and there with every wind. 

Like flowers in the mead. 
Now war, now peace, now war again ; 
Desire, despair, delight, disdain : 

Though dead in midst of life ; 

In peace, and yet at strife. 

[FraDcis Davison was the son of the Secretary of that name to 
Queen Elizabeth, *' who suffered/* says Ritson, " so much through 
that princesses caprice and cruelty in the tragical aflkir of Mary 
Queen of Scots.*'] 



PLEASURES, BEAUTY, YOUTH ATTEND YE. 

JOHN FORD. 

Bom 1586. 

Pleasures, beauty, youth attend ye, 

Whilst the spring of nature lasteth ; 
Love and melting thoughts [befriend] ye. 
Use the time, ere Winter hasteth. 
Active blood, and free delight, 
Place and privacy invite. 
Do, do I be kind as fair. 
Lose not opportunity for air. 

She is cruel that denies it. 

Bounty best appears in granting. 
Stealth of sport as soon supplies it. 
Whilst the dues of. love are wanting. 
Here's the sweet exchange of bliss. 
When each whisper proves a kiss. 
In the game are felt no pains. 
For in all the loser gains. 

[From the *' Ladle's Triatt," 1099.] 



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ftONGS OF ENGLAND AND IRELAND. 



A LOVE SONNET. 
GEORGE WITHER. 
Bom 1588— Died 1667. 

I lovM a lass, a fair one. 
As fair /IS e'er was seen. 
She was indeed a rare one. 
Another Sfceba Queene ; 
But foole as then I was, 
I thought she lov'd me too. 
But now, alas ! sh'as left me, 
Falero, lero, loo. 

Her hair like gold did glister. 
Each eye was like a star. 
She did surpass her sister 
Which past all others farre ; 
She would me honey call — 
She'd, oh — she'd kiss me too. 
But now, alas ! sh'as left me, 
Falero, lero, loo. 

In summer time to Medley 
My love and I would go — 
The boatmen there stood ready 
My love and I to row ; 
For cream there would we call, 
For cakes, and for prunes too. 
But now, alas ! sh'as left me, 
Falero, lero, loo. 



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66 SONGS OF ENGLAND AND IRELAND. 

Many a merry meeting 
My love and I have had ; 
She was my only sweeting. 
She made my heart full glad ; 
The tears stood in her eyes. 
Like to the morning dew. 
But now, alas ! sh'as left me, 
Falero, lero, loo. 

And as abroad we walked 
As lover's fashion is» 
Oft as we sweetly talked. 
The sun would steal a kiss ; 
The wind upon her lips 
Likewise most sweetly blew. 
But now, alas ! sh'as left me, 
Falero, lero, loo. 

Her cheeks were like the cherry. 
Her skin as white as snow. 
When she was blythe and merry. 
She angel-like did show : 
Her waist exceeding small. 
The fives did fit her shoe,* 
But now, alas ! sh'as left me, 
Falero, lero, loo. 

In summer time or winter. 
She had her hearts desire, 
1 still did scorn to stint her. 
From sugar, sack, or fire ; 



* This is understood to mean, that her shoes were made upon the 
last No. 5, being one of the smaUeat size. 



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SONGS OF ENGLANiy AND IRELAND. 57 

The world went round about^ 
No cares we ever knew. 
But now^ alas ! sh'as left me, 
Falero, lero, loo. 

As we walk'd home together 
At midnight thro' the town. 
To keep away the weather — 
O'er her I'd cast my gown ; 
No cold my love should feel. 
What e'er the heavens could do. 
But now, alas ! sh'as left me, 
Falero, lero, loo. 

Like doves we would be billing. 
And clip and kiss so fast. 
Yet she would be unwilling 
That I should kiss the last ; 
They're Judas kisses now. 
Since that they prov'd untrue. 
For now, alas ! .sh'as left me, 
Falero, lero, loo. 

To maiden's vows and swearing. 
Henceforth no credit give. 
You may give them the hearing — 
But never them believe ; 
They are as false as fair, 
Unconstant, frail, untrue ; 
For mine, alas ! hath left me, 
Falero, lero, loo. 

'Twas I that paid for all things, 
'Twas other drank the wine, 
I cannot now recall things. 
Live but a fool to pine : 



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58 SONGS OF feNOLAND AN1> IR£LANl>. 

'Twas I that beat the bu6h 
The bird to others flew. 
For she, alas ! hath left me, 
Faleroi lera, loo. 

If ever that Dame Nature, 
For this false lover's sake 
Another pleasing creature 
Like unto her would make. 
Let her remember this. 
To make the other true. 
For this, alas ! hath left me, 
Falero, lero, loo. 

No riches now can raise me. 
No want makes me despair^ 
No misety amaze me. 
Nor yet for want I care : 
I have lost a world itself. 
My earthly heaven, adieu ! 
Since she, alas ! hath left me, 
Falero, lero, loo. 



[Ritaon by an ing^ehiods consttuction sopposes this pretty song to 
have been written in 1606, when its aathor was eighteen years of 
age ; but the learned antiquary's theory, Mr. Wilmott in his Lives of 
the Sacred Poets, justly laughs at. Mr. Ritson, sends Wither to 
College in l604, (he went there in l603) allows the poet that year 
to fall in love, ttie next "for the unfavourable return he expe- 
rienced, and the third for the loss of his mistress," and concludes 
that the song " must have been written in l606.*' [Ancient Songs, 
p. 206.] This reason is grrounded upon the mention of MeOley-hoase, 
'* between Godstow and Oxford, very pleasantly situated Just by the 
river, and a famous place fcfr recreation in summer time," but Wither 
could have been there years after he left College ; the whole tiling 
is likely enough a creation of Ritson*s fancy. Warton without any 
authority has given this song to Taylor the Water-poet.] 



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SONGS OP SNOLAND AND IRKLAND. 59 

THE SHEPHERD'S RESOLUTION. 
GEORGE WITHER. 

Shall I wasting in despair^ 

Die because a woman's fair ? 

Or make pale my cheeks with care 

'Cause another's rosy are ; 

Be she fairer than the day. 

Or the flowery meads in May ; 

If she be not so to me. 

What care I how fair she be ? 

Shall my foolish heart be pin'd 
'Cause 1 see a woman kind ? 
Or a well-disposed Nature 
Joined with a lovely feature ? 
Be she meeker, kinder than 
The turtle dove or pelican : 

If she be not so to me . 

What care I how kind she be ? 

Shall a woman's virtues move 
Me to perish for her love ? 
Or her well-deservings ♦ known 
Make me quite forget mine own ? 
Be she with that goodness blest. 
Which may gain her name of Best ; 

If she be not such to me. 

What care I how good she be. 

* Ellis reads •* merit's value." 



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60 SONGS OF ENGLAND AND IRELAND. 

' 'Cause her fortune seems too high. 

Shall I play the fool and die ? 
Those that bear a noble mind 
Where they want of riches find. 
Think what with them they would do. 
That without them dare to woo : 
And unless that mind I see 
What care 1 how great she be. 

Great, or good, or kind, or fair, 
I will ne'er the more despair : 
If she love me, this believe, 
I will die, ere she shall grieve. 
If she slight me when I woo 
I can scorn and let her go : 
If she be not fit for me. 
What care I for whom she be. 



[From his " Mistresse of Philarete,»» 1622.] 



THE STEDFAST SHEPHERD. 
GEORGE WITHER, 

Hence away, thou Syren, leave me. 

Pish ! unclasp these wanton arms ; 
Sug'red words can ne'er deceive me, 
(Though thou prove a thousand charms). 

Fie, fie, forbear ; 

No common snare 
Can ever my affection chain : 

Thy painted baits. 

And poor deceits. 
Are all bestow'd on me in vain. 



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SONGS OF ENGLAND AND IRELAND. 61 

Pm no slave to such, as you be ; 

Neither shall that * snowy breast. 
Rolling eye, and lip of ruby 
Ever rob me of my rest : 

Go, go display 

Thy beauty's ray 
To some more-soon enamour'd swain : 

Those commonf wiles 

Of sighs and smiles 
Are all bestow'd on me in vain. 

I have elsewhere vowed a duty ; 
Turn away thy tempting eye : 
Show not me a I painted beauty ; 
These impostures I defy : 
My spirit loathes 
Where gawdy clothes 
And fained oaths may love obtain : 
I love her so. 
Whose look swears no ; 
That all your labours § will be vain. 

Can he prize the tainted posies. 

Which on every || breast are worn ; 
That may pluck the virgin roses 
From their never-touched thorn ? 
I can go rest 
On her sweet breast 
That is the pride of Cynthia's train : 
Then stay thy tongue ; 
Thy mermaid song 
Is all bestowed on me in vain. 



Variations from an old copy printed by Eliia. 
* Nor shall that soft, t forced, t thy. f thy labour. | othecs. 



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62 SONGS OF ENGLAND AND IBELAND, 

He's a fool that basely dallies^ 

Where each peasant mates with him : 
Shall I haunt the thronged vallies. 
Whilst there's noble hills to clim' ? 
' No, no, though clowns 
Are scar'd with frowns, 
I know the best can but disdain ; 
And tl^ose PU prove 
So will thy love 
Be all bestowed on me in vain. 

I do scorn to vow a duty. 

Where each lustftil lad may woo : 
Give me her whose sun-like beauty. 
Buzzards dare not soar unto : 
She, she it is 
Affords that bliss 
For which I would refuse no pwn ; 
But such as you. 
Fond fools, adieu ! 
You seek to capiive me in vain. 

Leave me then, you* Syren leave me ; 

Seek no more to work me harms : 
Crafty wiles cannot deceive me, 
Whof am proof against your charms : 
You labour may 
To lead astray 
• The heart that constant shall remain : 
And I the while 
Will sit and smile 
To see you spend your time in vain. 

* Thou. t I. 



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SONGS OF I^NOMNO ANA ICELAND. 63 



PHILUDA FLOUTS ME. 



Oh ! what a plague* is love I 

I cannot t bear it ; 
She will unconstant prove, 

I greatly fear it ; » 
It I so torments my mind. 

That my heart § faileth; 
She H wavers with the wind. 

As a ship IT saileth : 
Please her the best I may. 
She loves still to gainsay ;♦* 
Alack, and well-a-day ! 

Phillida floutffme. 

At the fair, tV other day,tt 

As she passed tt by me. 
She look'd another way. 

And would not spy me, 
I woo'd her for to dine 

But could not get her, 
Dick§§ ha<} her to the Vine, 

He might intreat her, 
With Daniel she did dance, 
0|i me she would not glance ; 
Oh ! thrice unhappy chance ! 

Phillida flouts me. 



Variations ham an old copy printed bj Ellis. 
* Pain. t HowshaUI. t Sbe. i Strength. 

I And. f ** that/' inserted. ** Looks another waf' 

tt Yesterday. tt She did pass. »» WiU. 



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64 SONGS OF ENGLAND AND IRELAND. 

Fair maid, be not so coy. 

Do not disdain me ; 
I am my mother's joy. 

Sweet, entertain me ! 
I shall have,* when she dies. 

All things, that's t fitting; 
Her poultry and her bees. 

And h^r goose J sittings 
A pair of mattress-beds, > 
A barrel § full of shreds. 
And yet for all these || goods, 

Phillida flouts me ! 

I often hear'd her say. 

That she lov'd posies ; 
In the last month of May 

I gave her roses ; 
Cowslips and gilly-flowers. 

And the sweet lily, 
I got to deck the bowers 

Of my dear Philly : 
She did them all disdain. 
And threw them back again ; 
Therefore, 'tis flat and plain, 

Phillida flouts me. 

Thou shall eat. curds and cream 
All the year lasting, 

And drink the crystal stream. 
Pleasant in tasting ; 



* She'U give me. t Thpit is. t Geese. 

i A bag. I This. 



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SONGS or ENGLAND AND IRELAND. 65 

Swigg whey untill thou burst, 

Et^t bramble-berries, 
Pye-lid and pastry crust. 

Pears, plumbs and cherries ; 
Thy garments shall be thin. 
Made of a weathers skin : 
Yet, all's not worth a pin, 
• Phillida flouts me. 

Which way soe'er I go. 

She still torments me ;' 
And whatsoe'er I do. 

Nothing contents me ; 
I fade and pine away. 

With grief and sorrow ; 
I fall quite to decay. 

Like any shadow: 
I shall be dead, I fear, 
M^thin a thousand year 
And all because my dear 

Phillida flouts me. 



Fair maiden, have a care. 

And in time take me, 
I can have those as fair. 

If you forsake me : 
There's Dol, the dury-mud, 

Smil'd on me lately. 
And wanton Winnifred 

Favours me greatly : 
She throws milk on my cloaths, 
Th' other plays with my nose ; 

VOL. I. F 



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66 SONGS OFf ENGLAND AND IRELAND. 

I 

What pfetty toys* are those ! 
Phillida flouts me. 



She has a cloth f of mine. 

Wrought with blue J Coventry, 
Which she keeps as a sign 

Of my fidelity ; 
But if she frowns on me,§ 

She ne'er shall || wear it ; 
111 give it my maid Joan,ir 

And she shall tear it.** 
Since 't will no better be, ft 
V\\ bear it patiently ; 
Yet all the world may sec 

Phillida flouts me. 



[ThlA Hingrnlar ballad is printed from Ritsons' Ancient Song^s, who 
hs3 taken it from ** The Theatre of Compliments, or New Academy, 
London, 1689." The variations given at the bottom of the pages are 
from im older copy in a poetical miscellany, called " Wit Restored, 
i^JiS,*' which Mr. Geo. Ellis followed. Hie order of the stanzas run 
thusi— 

1. Oh ! what a pain is love — 
8. aH the fair yesterday— 

3. Fair maid be not so coy— 

4. She hath a clout of mine— 

5. Thon Shalt eat cords and cream— 
0. Fair maidens have a c 



* Wanton signs. t Clout. t Good. 

§ I' faith if she flinch. | Shall not 

^ To Tibb my t'other wench. «« I mean to bear It. 

ft And yet it grieves my heart 

So soon from her to part t 

Death strikes me with his dart, &c. 



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SONGS OF ENGLAND AND IR£LAND. 67 

The seventh and last stanza is not foand in the text copy. 

I cannot work and sleep 

All at a season ; 
Love wounds my heart so deep. 

Without all reason. 
I 'gin to pine away. 

With grief and sorrow. 
Like to a fatted beast 

Penn*d in a meadow, 
I shall be dead, I fear. 
Within this thousand year, 
And all for very fear I 

Phillida flouts me. 

Isaak Walton alludes to the Song by name in his " Compleat 
Angler,*' published in 1053. Ritson jnsUy supposes it much older 
than Walton's day. Phillida's answer is printed bat its merits are 
neither original or many.] 



A WORSHIPPER OF CRUELTY. 

You may use common Shepherds so ! 

My sighs at last to storms will grow^ 

And blow such scorns upon thy pride 

Will blast all I ha^e deified : 
You are not faire when love you lack 
Ingratitude makes all things black. 

Oh do not for a flock of sheep, 

A golden shower whenas you sleep, 

Or for the tales ambition tells 

Forsake the house where honour dwells : 
In Damon's palace you'll ne'er shine 
So bright as in that bower of mine. 



[From a MS. in the Harleian Library, No. 3511, written in the time 
of K. Charles the Second. See Ritson's Ancient Songs, p. 260.] 



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68 SONGS OF ENGLAND AND IRELAND. 



WELCOME, WELCOME! 

WILLIAM BROWNE. 

Born 1590. 

Welcome, welcome, do I sing. 
Far more welcome than the spring ; 

He that parteth from you never. 
Shall enjoy a spring for ever. 

Love that to the voice is near. 
Breaking from your ivory pale. 

Need not walk abroad to hear 
The delightful nightingale. 

Welcome, welcome, then I sing 
Far more welcome than the spring j 

He that parteth from you never. 
Shall enjoy a spring for ever. 

Love, that looks still on your eyes. 
Though the winter have begun 

To benumb our arteries. 
Shall not want the summers sun. 
Welcome, Welcome then I sing. 

Love, that still may see your cheeks. 
Where all rareness still reposes. 

Is a fool, if e'er he seeks 
Other lilies, other roses. 

Welcome, welcome, then I sing. 



I 



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SONGS OF ENGLAND AND IRELAND. 69 

Love, to whom your soft lip yields. 
And perceives your breath in kissing. 

All the odours of the fields. 
Never, never, shall be missing. 

Welcome, welcome then I sing. 

Love that question would iemew. 

What fair Eden was of old. 
Let him rightly study you. 
And a brief of that behold. 

Welcome, welcome then I sing. 
Far more welcome than the spring. 
He that parteth from you never. 
Shall enjoy a spring for ever. 



[From a MS. copy of Browne's Poems in the Lansdowne CoUection, 
printed lately by Sir Egerton Brydges. In 1772 Browne's Works 
were repnblished, but with little success, he deserres to be widely 
known, his Pastorals are the pastorals of nature.] 



TO THE VIRGINS, TO MAKE MUCH OF TIME. 

ROBERT HERRICK. 
Bom 1591. 

Gather ye rosebuds, while ye may ; 

Old Time is still a flying ; 
And this same flower that smiles to day. 

To-morrow wiD be dying. 

The glorious lamp of Heaven, the Sun, 

The higher he's a getting. 
The sooner will his race be run. 

And. nearer he's to setting. 



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70 SONGS OF ENGLAND AND IRELAND. 

That age is best, which is the first. 
When youth and blood are warmer. 

But being spent, the worse, and worst 
Times, still succeed the former. 

Then be not coy, but use your time. 
And while ye may, go marry ; 

For having lost but once your prime. 
You may for ever tarry. 



[From ** Hesperides, or the works both Hamane and Divioe of 
Robert Herrick, Esq. 1648." The idea is taken from Spenser- 
Gather therefore the rose whilst yet in prime ; 
For soon comes age that will her pride deflower } 
Gather the rose of love while yet is time. 
Whilst loTing, thon may'st loved be with eqoal crime. 

Faery Queene, Book 2, Canto 12, v. 75. 

Mr. Campbell says this Song is « sweetly Anacreontic."] 



TO ELECTRA. 
EOBERT HERBIGK. 

'Tis Evening, my sweet. 

And dark ; — let us meet ; 
Long time w'ave here been a t03dng : 

And never, as yet — 

That season could get 
Wherein t'ave had an enjo3dng. 

For pity or shame. 

Then let not love's flame. 
Be ever and ever a spending ; 

Since now to the port 

The path is but short; 
And yet our way has no ending. 



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SONGS OF ENGLAND AND IRELAND. 71 

Time flys away fast. 

Our hours do waste : 
The while we never remember. 

How soon our life, here. 

Growls old with the year. 
That dies with the next December. 

[Fronl the " Hesperides," &c. p. 227, Ed. l648.] 



TO HIS MISTRESS. 
ROBERT HERRICK. 

Choose me your Valentine ; 

Next let us marry : 
Love to the death will pine 

If we long tarry. 

Promise, and keep your vows. 

Or vow ye never : 
Love's doctrine disallows 

Troth-breakers ever. 

You have broke promise twice 

(Dear) to undo me ; 
If you prove faithless thrice. 

None then will woo ye. 



[From " Hesperides," p. 32, Bd. 1648.] 



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72 SONGS OF ENGLAND AND IRELAND. 

TO ANTHEA WHO MAY COMMAND HIM ANY THING. 

ROBERT HERRICK. 

Bid me to live, and I will live 

Thy Protestant to be : 
Or bid me love, and I will give 

A loving heart to thee. 

A heart as soft, a heart as kind^ 

A heart as sound and free. 
As in the whole world thou canst find 

That heart I'll give to thee. 

Bid that heart stay, and it will stay. 

To honour thy decree : 
Or bid it languish quite away. 

And *t shall do so for thee. 

Bid me to weep, and I will weep. 

While I have eyes to see : 
And having none, yet I will keep 

A heart to weep for thee. 

Bid me despair, and I'll despair. 

Under that Cjrpress tree : 
Or bid me die and I will dare 

E'en death, to die for thee. 

Thou art my life, my love, my heart. 

The very eyes of me : 
And hast command of every part. 

To live and die for thee. 



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80NG6 of ENGLAND AND IRELAND. 73 

(Pronp ** Hesperides,** p. ISS, Ed. 1048,* Herrick la highly lauded 
by Mr. Campbell in his Specimens of the Poets.] 



* Where these well known lines are foond, called :- 
CHERRIE.RIPE. 

Cherrie-Ripe, Ripe, Ripe, I cry, 
Fall and fisir ones; come and bay: 
If so be, yOu ask me where 
They doe grow i I answer. There, 
Where my JuKa*s lips doe smile ; 
There's the Land, of Cherry.ne : 
Whose plantations folly show 
All the year, where Cherries grow. 



TELL ME NO MO.RE. 

HENRY KING BISHOP OF CHICHESTER. 

Bom 1591— Died KMg. 

Tell me no more how fair she is, 

I have no mind to hear 
The story of that distant bliss 

I never shall come near : 
fiy sad experience I have found 
Tliat her perfection is my wound. 

And tell me not how fond I am 

To tempt my daring fate. 
From whence no triumph ever came. 

But to repent too late : 
There is some hope ere long I may 
In silence doat myself away. 



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74 SONGS OF ENGLAND AND IRELAND, 

I ask no pity. Love, from thee. 
Nor will thy justice blame. 

So that thou wilt not envy me 
The glory of my flame ; 

Which crowns my heart whene'er it dies. 

In that it falls her sacrifice. 



[The poems of King are terse and elegant, but, like tiiose of most 
of his contemporaries, deficient in simplicitf. Gso. Ellis.] 



THE ANGLER'S WISH. 

ISAAK WALTON. 

Bom 1593— Died 1683. 

I in these flow'ry meads would be : 
These crystal streams should solace me. 
To whose harmonious bubbling noise, 
I with my angle would rejoice. 
Sit here and see the turtle-dove 
Court his chaste mate to acts of love. 

Or on that bank feel the west wind 
Breathe health and plenty, please my mind 
To see sweet dew-drops kiss these flowers. 
And then wash'd off by April showers : 
Here, hear my Kenna sing a song 
There see a blackbird feed her young. 

Or a leverock build her nest ; 
Here, give my weary spirits rest. 
And raise my low pitchM thoughts above 
Earth, or what poor mortals love : 

Thus free from law-suits and the noise 
Of Princes' Courts I would rejoice. 



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S0N08 OF ENGLAND AND IRELAND. 75 

Or with my Bryan and a book 
Loiter long days near Shawford brook ; 
There sit by him and eat my meat. 
There see the sun both rise and set : 
There bid good morning to next day» 
There meditate my time away : 
And angle on and beg to have 
A quiet passage to a welcome grave. 

[Hie 80iir< which honest Isaak wished to hear his Kenna aing, 
when loitering with his dog Bryan, he tells us was :~ 

Like hermit poor in pensive place obscure, 
I mean to spend my dairs of endless donbt. 
To wait snch woes as time cannot recnre 
Where none but lore shall ever find me oat. 
&c. &c. &c. 
It was no doubt a popular song in Walton's time, but it might now 
be snng with many other fayonrite old yersee, without a single cry of 
" exceUcnt good i* fWth."] 



KEEP ON YOUR BfASK. 

Keep on your mask and hide your eye. 
For with beholding you 1 die. 
Your fatal beauty, Gorgon like 
Dead with astonishment will strike. 
Your piercing eyes, if them I see 
Are worse than Basiliskes to me. 

Shut from mine eyes those hills of snow. 
Their melting valley do not show. 
Those azure paths lead to despair, 
O vex me not ? forbear, forbew ! 
For while I thus in torments dwell 
The sight of heaven is worse than hell. 



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76 SONGS OF ENGLAND AND IRELAND. 

Your dainty voice and warbling breath 

Sounds like a sentence past for death ; 

Your dangling trelsses are become 

Like instruments of final doom 

O, if an angel torture so. 

When life is done where shaU I go ! 

[From a MS. copy of Poems by William Browne, aathor of Bri- 
tannia's Pastorals contained amony the Lansdown papers. This 
song is found at the end of the volame among some pieces by Raleigh, 
Wotton and others. It has the signature Wm. Ste. It is also fonnd 
in a little volome called Westminster Drollery, published in 1679, 
without any name.] 



DEATH'S FINAL CONQUEST. 
JAMES SHIRLEY. 
Bom 1596— Died 1066. 

The glories of our blood* and state 

Are shadows, not substantial things ; 
There is no armour against fate : 
Death lays his icy hands on kings : 
Sceptre and crown 
Must tumble down. 
And in the dust be equal made 
'With the poor crooked scythe and spade. 

Some men with swords may reap the field 
And plant fresh laurels where they kiU ; 
But their strong nerves at last must yield. 
They tame but one another still. 
Early or late 
They stoop to fate. 
And must give up their murmuring breath. 
When they, pale captives, creep to death. 

« Percy reads " birth.»» 



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SONGS OF ENGLAND AND IRELAND. 

The garlands wither on your brow. 

Then boast no more your mighty deeds ; 
Upon death's purple altar now 
See, where the Tictor-Fictim bleeds : 
All heads must come 
To the cold tomb. 
Only the actions of the just 
Smell sweet, and blossom in their dust. 



[lliis floe song is foand in '* The Contention of Ajax and Ulysses, 
for the sfmonr of Achilles,** 1659. Shirley's Flairs and Poems have 
been lately rej^nted with notes by Mr. Giflbrd, and an account of 
his Life by Mr. Dyce. Dr. Percy ga^e to the last line, what Bitson 
cans one of his " brilliant touches,*' by altering the word " their" to 
** the," certainly an improTement.] 



THE SHEPHERD'S HOLIDAY. 
JAMES SHIRLEY. 

Woodmen, shepherds, come away. 
This is Pan's great holiday. 

Throw off cares, 
l^th your heaven-aspiring airs 

Help us to sing. 
While valleys with your echoes ring. 

Nymphs that dwell within these groves. 
Leave your arbours, bring your loves. 

Gather posies. 
Crown your golden hair with roses ; 

As you pass. 
Foot like fairies on the grass. 



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7S SONGS OF ENGLAND AND IRELAND. 

Joy crown our bowers ! Philomel 
Leave off Tereus' rape to tell. 

Let trees dance. 
As they at Thracian lyre did once : 

Mountains play. 
This is the shepherd's holiday. 



[FIrom '* Love Tricks or the School of Complement," l63i .] 



WHY DO YOU DWELL. 

JAMES SHIRLEY. 

Why do you dwell so long in clouds. 
And smother your best graces ? 

'Tis time to cast away those shrouds. 
And clear your manly faces. 

Or not behave yourselves like spies 

Upon the ladies here ; 
On even terms go meet their eyes. 

Beauty and love shine there. 

You tread dull measures thus alone. 

Not satisfy delight j 
Go kiss their hands, and make your own 

With every touch more white. 



[Fotuid in Shirley's masque of " The Triomph of Peace," and sun^ 
wlkUe the masquers are in '* their revels with the ladies.**] 



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SONGS OF ENGLAND AND IRELAND. 79 

LOVE FLIES AWAY. 
THOMAS MAT. 

Bom about 1606— Died 1062. 

Dear, do not you fair beauty wrong. 
In thinking still you are too young ; 
The rose and lilies in your cheek 
Flourish, and no more ripeness seek. 

Your cherry lip, red, soft and sweet. 
Proclaims such fruit for taste most meet ; 
Then lose no time, for love has wings. 
And flies away from aged things. 



iVrom " The Old Coaple," i668. 4to.] 



DISDAIN RETURNED. 

THOMAS CAREW. 

Bora about l600— Died about 1680. 

He that loves a rosy cheek. 
Or a coral lip admires. 

Or from star-like eyes doth seek 
Fuel to maintain his fires ; 

As old Time makes these decay. 

So his flames must waste away. 



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80 SONGS OF ENGLAND AND IRELAND. 

But a smooth and stedfast mind. 
Gentle thoughts, and calm desires. 

Hearts with equal love combined. 
Kindle never dying fires. 

Where these are not, I despise 

Lovely cheeks, or lips, or eyes. 

No tears, Celia, now shall win 
My resolv'd heart to return ; 
I have searched thy soul within. 

And find nought but pride, and scorn ; 
I have leam'd thy arts and now 
Can disdain as much as thou. 
Some power in my revenge convey. 
That love to her I cast away. 



[From " Poemes hj Thomas Carew, Esq. one of the gentlemeii of 
the Privie-chamber, and sewer in ordinary to his Majesty (Charles I.) 
Lond. 1640." Carew is a very elegant writer— though not so much 
admired as he deserves. Mr. Campbell in his Specimens of the Poets 
after printing this yery pretty song as Carew*s--some hundred 
pages after strangely enough inserts it as an anonymous piece from 
" Lawes* Ayres and Dialogues, 1063.'* See Campbell's Specimens, 
vol. 3, p. 193> and lb. p. 404.] 



ASK ME NO MORE. 
THOMAS CAREW. 

Ask me no more where Jove bestows. 
When June is past, the fading rose : 
For in your beauties orient deep. 
These flowers as in their causes sleep. 



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SONGS OF ENGLAND AND IRELAND. 81 

Ask me no more whither doe stray 
The golden atoms of the day : 
For in pure love Heaven did prepare 
Those powders to enrich your hair. 

Ask me no more whither doth haste 
The nightingale, when May is past : 
For in your sweet dividing throat 
She winters, and keeps warm her note. 

Ask me no more where those stars light. 
That downwards fall in dead of night : 
For in your eyes they sit and there 
Fixed, become as in their sphere. 

Ask me no more if East or West, 
The Phoenix builds her spicy nest : 
For unto you at last she flyes. 
And in your fragrant bosom dies. 



[Ftom Curew'B Poems, third edition. l2mo. l65i.] 



INGRATEFUL BEAUTY THREATENED. 
THOMAS CAREW. 

Hnow Celia, (since thou art so proud,) 
'Twas I that gave thee thy renown : 

Thou hadst in the forgotten crowd 
Of common beauties liv'd unknown. 

Had not my verse exhal'd thy name 

And with it impt the mngs of fame. 

VOL. I. o 



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82 SONGS OF ENGLAND AND IRELAND. 

That killing power is none of thine, 
I gave it to thy voice and eyes : 

Thy sweets, thy graces, all are mine ; 
Thou art my star, shin'st in my skies ,* 

Then dart not, from thy borrowed sphere. 

Lightning on him that fixM thee there. 

Tempt me with such affrights no more. 
Lest what I made I uncreate : 

Let fools thy mystic forms adore, 
ril know thee in thy mortal state. 

Wise poets that wrapp'd truth in tales. 

Knew her themselves through all her veils. 



MEDIOCRITY IN LOVE REJECTED. 
THOMAS CAREW. 

Give me more love, or more disdain ; 

The torrid or the frozen zone 
Brings equal ease unto my pain ; 

The temperate affords me none : 
Either extreme, of love, or hate. 
Is sweeter than a calm estate. 

Give me a storm ; if it be love. 

Like Danae in a golden shower 
I swim in pleasure ; if it prove 

Disdain, that torrent will devour 
My vulture hopes ; and his possessed 
Of Heaven, that's but from hell released : 
Then crown my joys, or cure my pain ; 
Give me more love or more disdain. 



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SONGA OP ENGLAND AND IRELAND. 83 

THE PROTESTATION. 
THOMAS CAREW. 

No more shall meads be deck'd with flowers. 
Nor sweetness dwell in rosy bowers ; 
Nor greenest buds on branches spring. 
Nor warbling birds delight to sing ; 
Nor April violets paint the grove 
If I forsake my Celia's love. 

The fish shall in the ocean bum. 
And fountains sweet shall bitter turn ; 
The humble oak no flood shall know 
When floods shall highest hills o'erflow. 
Black Lethe shall oblivion leave 
If e'er my Celia I deceite. 

Love shall his bow and shaft lay by. 
And Venus' doves want wings to fly : 
The sun refuse to shew his light. 
And day shall then be tum'd to night. 
And in that night no star appear ; 
If once I leave my Celia dear. 

Love shall no more inhabit earth. 
Nor lovers more shall love for worth ; 
Nor joy alone in Heaven dwell. 
Nor pain tprment poor souls in hell ; 
Grim Death no more shall horrid prove ; 
If e'er I leave bright Celia's love. 



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84 SONGS OF BNGLAND AND IRELAND. 



THE PRIMROSE. 
THOMAS CAREW. 

Ask me why I send you here 
This firstling of the infant year ; 
Ask me why I send to you 
This primrose all bepearPd with dew ; 
I straight will whisper in your ears, 
The sweets of love are wash'd with tears : 
Ask me why this flow'r doth show 
So yellow, green, and sickly too ; 
Ask me why this stalk is weak. 
And bending yet it doth not break ; 
I must tell you these discover 
What doubts and fears are in a lover. 



[This very pretty song of Carew's met the eye of Burns In an old 
collection— when he was gathering English songs for a proposed 
J)ubUcation of Mr. George Thomson's. He writes :— *' For ' Todlin 
Hame/ take the following old English song, which I dare say is but 
little known. I have altered it a little :— 

THE PRIMROSE. 

Dost ask me why I send thee here. 
This flrstUng of the infant year^ 
Dost ask me what this -Primrose shews 
Bepearrd thus with morning dews. 

1 must whisper to thy ears 

The sweets of love are wash*d with tears, — 

This lovely native of the dale 

Thou seest, how languid, pensive, pale. 



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80N08 OF ENGLAND AND IRELAND. 85 

Thoa seest thia bending «talk so weak 
That each way yieldmg doth not break ) 
I most tell thee these reveal. 
Hie doabts and fears that lorers feel." 

[Barns* alteration is now printed for the first time.] 



IT IS NOT BEAUTY I DEMAND. 
THOMAS CARE^. 

It is not beauty I demand, 

A crystal brow, the moon's despair. 
Nor the snow's daughter a white hand. 

Nor mermaid's yellow pride of hair. 

Tell me not of your starry eyes. 
Your lips that seem of roses fed, 

Your breasts where Cupid tumbling lies. 
Nor tleeps for kissing of his bed. 

A bloomy pair of yermil cheeks. 
Like Hebe's in her ruddiest hours, 

A breath that softer music speaks 
Than summer winds a-wooing flowers. 

Give me instead of beauty's bust, 
A tender heart, a loyal mind. 

Which with temptation I could trust. 
Yet never linked with error find. 



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86 SONGS OF ENGLAND AND IRELAND. 

One in whose gentle bosom I 
Could pour my secret heart of woes. 

Like the care-burthen'd honey-fly, 
•That hides his murmurs in the rose. 

My earthly comforter, whose love 
So indefensible might be. 

That when my spirit won above, 
Her's could not stay for sympathy I 



ON A GIRDLE. 
EDMUND WALLER. 
Born 1 605— Died 1S87. 



That which her slender waist confined. 
Shall now my joyful temples bind : 
No monarch but would give his crown, 
!!is arms might do what this has done. 

It was my heav'n's extremest sphere. 
The pale which held my lovely dear : 
My joy, my grief, my hope, my love. 
Do all within this circle move. 

A narrow compass and yet there 
Dwelt all that's good and all that's fair : 
Give ine but what this riband bound. 
Take all the rest the sun goes round. 



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SONGS OF ENGLAND AND IRELAND. 87 

GO LOVELY ROSE. 
EDMUND WALLER. 

Go, lovely Rose ! 
Tell her that wastes her time and me. 

That now she -knows 
When I resemble hfer to thee. 
How sweet and fair she seems to be. 

Tell her that's young. 

And shuns to have her graces spied. 

That hadst thou sprung 
In deserts, where no men abide. 
Thou must have uncommended died. 

Small is the worth 
Of beauty from the light retired : 

Bid her come forth. 
Suffer herself to be desired. 
And not blush so to be admired. 

Then die ! that she 
The common fate of all things rare 

May read in thee. 
How small a part of time they share 
That are so wondrous sweet and fair. 



[The foUowiog verse was added by Kirke White in a copy of 
Waller's Poems : 

Yet thoagh thou fade 

From thy dead leaves let fragrance rise ; 
And teach the maid 
That goodness time's rude hand defies 
That Tirtae lives when beaaty dies,] 



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88 SONGS OF ENGLAND AND IRELAND. 



TO CHLORIS. 



EDMUND WALLER. 



Chloris ! farewell ; I now must go ; 

For if with thee I longer stay. 
Thy eyes prevail upon ine so, 

I shall prove blind and lose my way. 

Fame of thy beauty and thy youth. 
Among the rest, me hither brought : 

Finding this fame fall short of truth. 
Made me stay longer than I thought. 

For I'm engaged by word and oath 

A servant to another's will ; 
Yet for thy love I'd forfeit both. 

Could I be sure to keep it still. 

But what assurance can I take. 
When thou, foreknowing this abuse. 

For some more worthy lover's sake 
May'st leave me with so just excuse ? 

For thou may'st say, 'twas not thy fault 
That thou didst thus inconstant prove. 

Being by my example taught 
To break thy oath to mend thy love. 



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SONGS OF ENGLAND AND IRELAND. 89 

No, Chloris ! no : I will return. 
And raise thy story to that height. 

That strangers shall at distance burn. 
And she distrust me reprobate. 

Then shall my lore this doubt displace. 
And gain such trust, that I may come 

And banquet sometimes on thy face. 
But make my constant meals at home. 



WHILE I LISTEN TO THY VOICE. 
EDMUND WALLBB. 

While I listen to thy voice, 
Chloris, I feel my life decay : 

That powerful noise 

Calls my flitting soul away. 

Oh ! suppress that magic sound. 

Which destroys without a wound. 

Peace, Chloris, peace ! or singing die. 
That together you and I 

To heaven may go ; 

For all we know 
Of what the blessed do above. 
Is that they sing and that they love. 



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90 SONGS OF ENGLAND AND IRELAND. 



THE SELF BANISHED. 



EDMUND WALLER. 

It is not that I love you less 
Than when before your feet I lay : 

But, to prevent the sad increase 
Of hopeless love, I keep away. 

In vain (alas) for every thing. 
Which 1 have known belong to you. 

Your form does to my fancy bring, 
And makes my old wounds bleed anew. 

Who in the spring, from the new sun. 

Already has a fever got. 
Too late begins those shafts to shun, 

Which Phoebus through his veins has shot. 

Too late he would the pain assuage. 
And to thick shadows does retire ; 

About with him he bears the rage. 
And in his tainted blood the fire. 

But vow'd I have, and never must 
Your banish'd servant trouble you ; 

For if I break, you may mistrust 
The vow I made — to love you too. 



i 



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SONGS OF ENGLAND AND IRELAND. 91 

TO ALTHEA, FROM PRISON. 

RICHARD LOVELACE. 

Born 1618— Died 1058. 

When Love with unconfined wings 

Hovers within my gates. 
And my divine Althea brings 

To whisper at my grates ; 
When I lie tangPd in her hair. 

And fetter'd to her eye. 
The " birds"* that wanton in the air. 

Know no such liberty. 

When flowing cups run swiftly round 

With no allaying Thames, 
Our careless heads with roses bound. 

Our hearts with loyal flames ; 
When thirsty grief in wines we steep ; 

When healths and draughts are free, — 
Fishes that tipple in the deep. 

Know no such liberty. 

When like committed linnets. If 

With shriller throat shall sing 
The sweetness, mercy, majesty. 

And glories of my king ; 



* In the original it is " gods/' Dr. Percy made the alteration ; in 
an old MS. copy of the Song since discovered by Dr. Bliss, it is also 
written " birds." See Wood*s Ath. Ox. by Bliss, Vol. III. col. 401. 

t Percy changed this line to <* When linnet-like confined I," which 
Mys EUU, " is more inteUigible." 



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U^ SONGS OF ENGLAND AND IRELAND. 

When I shall voice aloud how good 
He is, how great should be, — 

Enlarged winds that curl the flood 
Know no such liberty. 

Stone walls, do not a prison make. 

Nor iron bars a cage ; 
Minds innocent and quiet take 

That for an hermitage : 
If I have freedom in my love. 

And in my soul am fi'ee, — 
Angels, alone — that soar above 

Enjoy such liberty. 



[Lotelace wrote this Song we are informed by Anthony Wood, 
whea confined in the Gate House at Westminster, for presenting a 
l>ctition " from the whole body of the County of Kent to the House 
of Commons, for restoring the King (Charles I.) to bis rights." For 
mRT&f years Lovelace was a very gay character, and through his wit 
luid his handsomeness was in great fJayonr with the ladies, going 
aboat glittering in gold and silver. He soon ran through his fortune, 
and died in poverty and want in a very mean lodging in Gun. 
powder Alley near Shoe Lane. He lies buried in St. Bride's Church. 
The general fieiult of his poetry is its want of simplicity. " The Song 
to Althea" says Mr. Soutfaey " will live as long as the English 
lfl.nguage.**] 



TO LUCASTA, ON GOING TO THE WARS. 
RICHARD LOVELACE. 

Tell me not, sweet, I am unkinde. 

That from the nunnerie 
Of thy chaste breast and quiet minde. 

To warre and armes I flie. 



t 



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SONGS OF ENGLAND AND IRELAND. 93 

True, a new mistresse now I chase. 

The first foe in the field ; 
And with a stron^r faith embrace 

A sword, a horse, a shield. 

Yet this inconstancy is such, 

As you too shall adore ; 
I could not love thee, deare, so much, 

LotM I not honour more. 



[" Lovelace/' says Wood " made his amours to a gentiewoman of 
great beaaty and fortune named Lney- Sacheverel, whom he usually 
called Lux casta ; bat she upon a strong report that he was dead of 
his woand received at Dunkirk, (where he had brought a regiment 
for the service of the French King,) soon after married." Wood's 
Athense Ozonienses by Bliss, Vol. III. col. 463.] 



THE SCRUTINIE. 

RICHARD LOVELACE. 

Why should you swear I am forsworn. 

Since thine I vow'd to be? 
Lady it is already mom. 

And 'twas last night I swore to thee 
That fond impossibility. 

Have I not lov'd thee much and long, 
A tedious twelve hours space ? 

I must all other beauties wrong. 
And rob thee of a new embrace ; 

Could I still dote upon thy Face. 



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94 SONOS OF ENGLAND AND IRELAND. 

Not, but all joy in thy browne haire. 

By others may be found j 
But I must search the black and fure 

Like skillfull Minerallists that sound 
For treasure in un-plowed-up ground. 

ITien if when I have lov'd my round. 
Thou prov'st the pleasant she ; 

With spoyles of meaner Beauties crown'd, 
I laden will return to thee, 

Ef'n sated with Varietie. 



^The follflwiog description of a beaaty, from " Amyntor's Grore,*' 
m poem by the same author is fall of trae poetry. 

Her breath like to the whispering wind 
Was calm as thought, sweet as her mind ) 
Her lips like coral gates kept in 
The perfume and the pearl within ; 
Her eyes a doable flaming torch 
That always shine and never scorch j 
Herself the Heaven in which did meet 
The All of bright, of fair and sweet. 

As she walks " close by the lips of a clear stream," 

flowers bequeath 

At once the incense of their breath. 

'nit: liend of the Poet prcflzed to this yolume is talcen from a rery 
fine paLutlDff preserved in Dulwich College.] 



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SONGS OP ENGLAND AND IRELAND. 95 

WHY SO PALE. 
SIR JOHN SUCKLING. 

Born 1613— Died 1641. 

Why 80 pale and wan, fond lover ? 

Prithee, why so pale ? 
Wll, when looking well can't move her. 

Looking ill prevail ? 

Prithee why so pale ? 

Why so dull and mute young Sinner ? 

Prithee why so mute ? 
Will, when speaking well can't win her. 

Saying nothing do't ? 

Prithee why so mute. 

Quit, quit, fdr shame this will not move. 

This cannot take her ; 
If of herself she will not love, 

Nothing can make her— 

The Devil take her. 



[This Song is snngr by Orsames in Suckling's " Aglaora.'* It con- 
tains says Orsames, " a littie fooUsh counsel, 1 gave a friend of mine 
four or five years ago, when he was faUing into a consumption." j 



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96 SONGS OF ENGLAND AND IRELAND. 



SEND ME BACK MY HEART. 



SIR JOHN SUCKLING. 

I prythee send me back my heart. 

Since I cannot have thine : 
For if from yours you will not part, 

Why then should'st thou have mine ? 

Yet now I think on't, let it lie. 

To find it, were in vain : 
For thou'st a thief in either eye 

Wou'd steal it back again. 

Why should two hearts in one breast lie, 

And yet not lodge together ? 
O Love, where is thy Sympathy, 

If thus our breasts thou sever. 

But Love is such a mystery 

I cannot find it out : 
For when I think I'm best resolv'd 

I then am in most doubt. 

Then farewell care, and farewell woe 

I will no longer pine : 
For rU believe I have her heart — 

As much as she has mine. 

[George Ellis tells us that " the grrace and elegance of Suckling's 
Snnga and Ballads are inimitable."] 



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SONGS OF ENGLAND AND IRELAND. 97 

TO CYNTHIA, ON CONCEALMENT OF HER BEAUTY. 

SIR FRANCIS KINASTON. 
Born about l6l6. 

Do not conceal thy radiant eyes. 
The star-light of serenest skies ; 
Lest wanting of their heavenly light. 
They turn to chaos' endless night ! 

Do not conceal those tresses fair. 
The silken snares of thy curPd hair; 
Lest finding neither gold nor ore. 
The curious silk- worm work no more ! 

Do not conceal those breasts of thine. 
More snow-white than the Apennine ; 
Lest, if there be like cold and frost. 
The lily be for ever lost ! 

Do not conceal that fragrant scent. 
Thy breath, which to all flowers hath lent 
Perfumes ; lest, it being supprest. 
No spices grow in all the East ! 

Do not conceal thy heavenly voice. 
Which makes the hearts of Gods rejoice ; 
Lest, music hearing no such thing. 
The nightingale forget to sing ! 

Do not conceal, nor yet eclipse. 
Thy pearly teeth with coral lips ; 
Lest, that the seas cease to bring forth 
^ Gems which from thee have all their worth ! 

- VOL. I. H 



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98 



SONGS OF ENGLAND AND IRELAND. 



Do not conceal no beauty, grace 
That's either in thy mind or face ; 
Lest Virtue overcome by Vice 
Make men believe no Paradise. 



TO A COY LADY. 
ALEXANDER BROME. 

Born 1620— Died 1666. 

I prithee leave this peevish fashion, 
Dont desire to be high-priz'd. 

Love's a princely noble passion. 
And doth scorn to be despis'd. 

Though we say you're fair, you know 

We your beauty do bestow. 

For our fancy makes you so. 

Dont be proud 'cause we adore you. 
We do't only for our pleasure ; 

And those parts in which you glory 
We by fancy weigh and measure. 

When for deities you go. 

For angels or for queens, pray know 

'Tis our own fancy makes you so. 

Dont suppose your Majesty 

By tyranny's best signified. 
And your angelic Natures be 

Distinguished only by your pride. 
Tyrants make subjects rebels grow. 
And pride makes angels devils below. 
And your pride may make you so ! 



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SONGS OF ENGLAND AND IRELAND. 99 

THE MAD LOVER. 

ALEXANDER BROME. 

I have been in love, and in debt, and in drink — 

This many and many year ; 
And those three sire plagues enough, one would think. 

For one poor mortal to bear. 
'Twas drink made me fall into love, 

An4 love made me run into debt ; 
And though I have struggled, and struggled and strove, 

I cannot get out of them yet. 

There's nothing but money can cure me. 
And rid me of all my pain ; 
'Twill pay all my debts. 
And remove all my lets ; 
And my mistress that cannot endure me. 

Will love me, and love me again : 
Then I'll fall to loving and drinking agdn. 



[Brome is supposed to have written many Songs against the 
Romp Parliament.] 



t 

• THE RESOLVE. 

'* ALEXANDER BROME. 

i 

Tell me not of a face that's fair. 
Nor lip and cheek that's red, 
• Nor of the tresses of her hair. 

Nor curls in order laid ; 



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100 SONGS OF ENGLAND AND IRELAND. 

Nor of a rare seraphic voice. 

That like an angel sings ; 
Though if I were to take my choice, 

I would have all these things. 
But if that thou wilt have me love. 

And it must be a she ; 
The only argument can move 

Is, that she will love me 

The glories of your ladies be 

But metaphors of things. 
And but resemble what we see 

Each common object brings. 
Roses, outred their lips and cheeks. 

Lilies their whiteness stain : 
What fool is he that shadow seeks. 

And may the substance gain ! 
Then if thou'lt have me love a lass. 

Let it be one that's kind. 
Else I'm a servant to the glass— 

That's with Canary lin'd. 



TO HIS DEAREST BEAUTY. 

THOMAS STANLEY. 
Bom aboat 1624— Died in 1078. 

When, dearest beauty, thou shalt pay 
Tliy faith and my vain hope away 
To some dull soul, that cannot know 
The worth of that thou dost bestow; 



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SONGS OF ENGLAND AND IBELAND. 101 

Lest with my sighs and tears t mi^^t ' -/ 

Disturb thy uneonfin'd delight^ ... 

To some- dark shade will I'Tetire;, : I '• ' ; :•'. 
And there forgot by all, exprire. 

Thus, whilst the difference thou shalt prove 
Betwixt a feign'd and real love. 
Whilst he, more happy, but less true. 
Shall reap those joys I did pursue. 
And with those pleasures crowned be 
By fate, which love design'd for me. 
Then thou perhaps thy self will find 
Cruel too long or too soon kind. 



IN PRAISE OF LOVE AND WINE. 

ROBEaT HEATH. 

Born aboat l625. 

Invest my head with fragrant rose. 
That on fair Flora's bosom grows ! 
Distend my veins with purple juice, 
That mirth may through my soul diffuse I 
'Tis wine and love, and love in wine 
Inspires our youth with flames divine. 

Thus, crown'd with Paphian myrtle, I 
In Cyprian shades will bathing lie; 
Whose snow if too mueh cooling, then 
Bacchus shall warm my blood again. 
'Tis wine and love, and love in wine 
Inspires our youth with flames divine. 



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102 SONGS OF ENGLAND AND IRELAND. 

, '.tiifeVsbprt, and winged pleasures fly ; 
,,. . . Who moufnuig live, do living die. 
>; ; ; OiJ doivp-and floods then, swan-like, I 
Wiirs^reWHihy limbs, and singing die. 
'Tis wine and love, and love in wine. 
Inspires our youth with flames divine. 



[From *' Clarastella," a collection of Poems in one volame. l2mo. 

1650.] 



POOR CHLORIS WEPT. 

Poor Chloris wept, and from her eyes 
The liquid tears ran trickling down ; 
(Such melting drops might well suffice 
To pay a ransom for a crown) 
And as she wept, she sighing said, 
" Alas for me, unhappy maid 
That by my folly am betray'd !" 

But when those eyes (unhappy eyes !) 

Met with the object of my woe, 
Mcthought our souls did sympathize. 
And it was death to hear a no. 
He woo'd ; I granted, then befell 
My shame, which I do shame to tell :— 
O that I had not lov'd so well ! 

And had I been so wise as not 
T*have yielded up my virgin fort j 

My name had been without a blot. 
And thwarted th' envy of report. 



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SONGS OF ENGLAND AND IRELAND. 103 

But now my shame hath made me be 
A butt for time to point at me. 
And but a mark of misery. 

But now in sorrow must I sit. 

And pensive thoughts possess my breast ; 
My silly soul with cares is split. 
And grief denies me wonted rest. 
Come then, black night, and screen me round. 
That I may never more be found. 
Unless in tears of sorrow drown'd ! 



[*' From ' The British MisceliaDv/ where it is stated to be copied 
from an ancient MS:** Geo. EUis. 1 Qnd it in a little collectioa called 
Westminster Drollery, published in 1671» p. 68.] 



DULCINA. 



As at noon Dulcina rested 

In her sweet and shady bower. 
Came a shepherd, and requested 
In her lap to sleep an hour. 

But from her look 

A wound he took 
So deep, that for a farther boon. 

The nymph he prays ; 

Whereto she says, 
** Forego me now, come to me soon." 

But in vain she did conjure him 

To depart her presence so. 
Having a thousand tongues t' allure him. 

And but one to bid him go ; 



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104 SONGS OF ENGLAND AND IKELAND. 

When lips invite^ 

And eyes delight^ 
And cheeks as fresh as rose in Jvtae, 

Persuade delay. 

What boots to say, 
" Forego me now come to me soon." 

He demands, what time for pleasure 

Can there be more fit than now ? 
She says — night gives love that leisure, 
Which the day doth not allow. 

He says the sight. 

Improves delight ; 
Which she denies ; '* nights murky noon 

In Venus' plays 

Makes bold,'' she says, 
*' Forego me now come to me soon." 

But what promise, or profession. 

From his hands could purchase scope ? 
Who would sell the sweet possession 
Of such beauty for a hope ? 
Or for the sight 
Of lingering night. 
Forego the present joys of noon ? 
Tho' ne'er so fair 
Her speeches were, 
" Forego me now, come to me soon ? " 

How at last agreed these lovers ? 

She was fair, and he was young : 
The tongue may tell what th' eye discovers, 

Joys unseen are never sung. 



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SOyOS OF ENGLAND AND IRELAND. 105 

Did she consent 

Or he relent ? 
Accepts he night, or grants she noon ? 

Left he her a maid. 

Or not ! she said, 
** Forego me now, come to me soon." 



[This whimsical but beaatiful song, is given somewhat out of its 
place — ^belonging as it does to an earlier period. Cayley has printed 
it as the composition of Raleigh, bat Sir Walter's right to it is very 
qaestionable. Walton mentions it in the Angler, and Percy allowed 
it a niche in the Reliqaes of English Poetry. The Bishop remarks 
that " it is more ancient than the ballad of Robin Goodfellow.*'] 



LOVE IN FANTASTIC TRIUMPH SAT. 

APHRA BEEN. 

Bom abont 1630— Died 1689. 

Love in fantastic triumph sat. 

Whilst blee(ting hearts around him flow'd. 
For whom fresh pains he did create. 

And strange tyrannic power he shew'd. 
From thy bright eyes he took his fires. 

Which round about in sport he hurlM j 
But 'twas from mine he took desires. 

Enough t' undo the amorous world. 

From me he took his sighs and tears. 
From thee his pride and cruelty. 

From me his languishment and fears. 
And every killing dart from thee * 



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106 SONGS OF ENGLAND AND IRELAND. 

Thus thou, and I, the God have arm'd. 

And set him up a deity ; 
But my poor heart alone is harm'd. 

Whilst thine the victor is and free. 



[Mrs. Aphra Behn was a dramatic writer of Charles the Second's day, 
but her plays are fall of the licentiousness of the ag^e, which happily 
soon after the pen of Jeremy Collier somewhat abated. Even Dryden, 
who was he observes himself •* too mach of a libertine in his poems," 
complains in a letter to Mrs. Thomas (the Corinna of Curll), that 
Mrs. Behn's plays were fall of loose writing, and brought scandal on 
the modesty of her sex. This is one of her best songs ; according to 
Mr. Dyce, " had it proceeded from the pen of Moore, it would have 
been admired in the present day." It appears in *< Abdelazar, or the 
Moor's Revenge."] 



MIRTILLO. 
CHARLES COTTON. 

Bom 1630— Died 1687. 

Ask not, why sorrow shades my brow ; 

Nor why my sprightly looks decay ? 
Alas ! what need I beauty now. 

Since he, that lovM it, died to day. 

Can ye have ears, and yet not know 
JVIirtillo, brave Mirtillo*s slain ? 

Can ye have eyes, and they not flow. 
Or hearts that do not share my pain ? 

He's gone, he's gone I and I will go ; 

For in my breast such wars I have. 
And thoughts of him perplex me so 

That the whole world appears my grave. 



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SONGS OF ENGLAND AND IRELAND. 107 

But I'll go to him, though he lie 
Wrapt in the cold, cold arms of death : 

And under yon sad cypress tree, 
rU mourn, PU mourn away my breath. 



TO A FAIR YOUNG LADY, GOING OUT OF TOWN 
IN THE SPRING. 

JOHN DRYDEN. 

Born 1631— Died 1701. 

Ask not the cause, why sullen Spring 
So long delays her flowers to bear ; 

Why warbling birds forget to sing, ' 
And winter storms invert the year : 

Chloris is gone, and fate provides 

To make it Spring where she resides. 

Chloris is gone, the cruel fair ; 

She cast not back a pitying eye : 
But left her lover in despair. 

To sigh, to languish, and to die : 
Ah, how can those fair eyes endure 
To give the wounds they will not cure. 

Great god of love, why hast thou made 
A face that can all hearts command. 

That all religions can invade. 
And change the laws of every land ? 

Where thpu hadst plac'd such power before. 

Thou shouldst have made her mercy more. 



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108 SONGS OF ENGLAND AND IRELAND. 

When Chloris to the temple comes. 
Adoring crowds before her fall ; 

She can restore the dead from tombs. 
And every life but mine recall. 

I only am by love design'd 

To be the victim for mankind. 



THE FAIR STRANGER. 
JOHN DRYDEN. 

Happy and free, securely blest. 
No beauty could disturb my rest ; 
My amorous heart was in despair. 
To find a new victorious fair. 

Till you descending on our plains. 
With foreign force renew my chains ; 
Where now you rule without control 
The mighty sovereign of my soul. 

Your smiles have more of conquering charms 
Than all your native country arms : 
Their troops we can expel with ease. 
Who vanquish only when we please. 

But in your eyes, oh ! there's the spell. 
Who can see them, and not rebel ? 
You make us captives by your stay. 
Yet kill us if you go away. 



[This soDgr is a con^liment to the Duchess of Portsmoath, on her 
first cominy to England.] 



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SONGS OF ENGLAND AND IRELAND. 109 

SONG IN THE CONQUEST OF GRANADA. 
JOHN DRYDEN. 

Wherever I am, and whatever I do, 

My Phillis is still in my mind ; 

When angry I mean not to Phillis to go. 

My feet of themselves the way find : 
Unknown to myself I am just at her door. 
And, when I woul4 rail, I can bring out no more, 

Than Phillis too fair and unkind. 

When Phillis I see, my heart bounds in my breast. 
And the love I would stifle is shown ; 
But asleep or awake, I am never at rest. 

When from my eyes Phillis is gone. 
Sometimes a sad dream does delude my sad mind : 
But, alas ! when I wake, and no Phillis I find. 

How I sigh to myself all alone. 

Should a king be my rival in her I adore. 

He should offer his treasure in vain : 
O, let me alone to be happy and poor. 

And give me my Phillis again ! 
Let Phillis be mine, and but ever be kind, 
I could to a desert with her be confined. 

And envy no monarch his reign. 

Alas ! I discover too much of my love. 
And she too well knows her own power. 

She makes me each day a new martyrdom prove. 
And makes me grow jealous each hour : 

But let her each minute torment my poor mind, 

I had rather love Phillis, both false and unkind. 
Than ever be freed from her power. 



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110 SONGS OF ENGLAND AND IRELAND. 



TO MATILDA ON THE ANNIVERSARY OF OUR 
MARRIAGE. 

JOHN DRYDEN. 

When first, in all thy youthful charms. 

And dazzling beauty's pride, 
Heightened by infant Love's alarms 

The nuptial knot was tied. 
Which gave thee to my longing arms 

A blooming, blushing bride. 

Entranced in Hymen's blissful bowers, 

We hail'd each rising sun, 
W"liile wing'd with joys the rosy hours 

In ecstacy flew on ; * 

And still we blest the heavenly powers. 

Who join'd our hearts in one. 

Now, as with fairy-footed tread. 

Time steals our years away. 
Thy mildly beaming virtues spread 

Soft influence o'er life's way ; 
Insuring to our peaceful shed 

Love's bliss without decay. 



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SONGS OF ENGLAND AND IRELAND. 



Ill 



THE TEARS OF AMYNTA FOR THE DEATH OF DAMON. 
JOHN DRYDEN. 

On a bank« beside a willow 

Heaven her covering, earth her pillow. 

Sad Amynta sigh'd alone ; 
From the cheerless dawn of morning 
Till the dews of night returning. 
Singing thus she made her moan : 
Hope is banished 
Joys are vanished, 
Damon,' my beloved, is gone ! 

Time, I dare thee to discover 
Such a youth, and such a lover ; 

Oh, so true, so kind was he ! 
Damon was the pride of nature, 
, Charming in his every feature ; 
Damon liv'd alone for me : 
Melting kisses, 
Murmuring blisses ; 
Who so liv'd and lov'd as we ! 

Never shall we curse the morning. 
Never bless the night returning. 

Sweet embraces to restore : 

Never shall we both lie dying. 

Nature failing, love supplying 

. ^ All the joys he drained before. 

Death come end me. 

To befriend me 5 

Love and Damon are no more. 



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112 SONGS OF ENGLAND AND IRELAND. 

CHLOE FOUND AMYNTAS LYING. 
JOHN DRYDEN. 

Chloe found Amyntas lying. 
All in tears upon the plain. 

Sighing to himself, and crying. 
Wretched I to love in vain I 

Kiss me, dear, before my dying ; 
Kiss me once and ease my pain. 

Sighing to himself, and crying. 
Wretched I to love in vain ! 

Ever scorning, and denying 
To reward your faithful swain. 

Kiss me, dear, before my dying ; 
Kiss me once and ease my pain. 

Ever scorning and denying 
To reward your faithful swain, — 

Chloe, laughing at his crying. 
Told him that he lov'd in vain. 

Kiss me, dear, before my dying ; 
Kiss me once and ease my pain. 

Chloe laughing at his crying. 
Told him that he lovM in vain ; 

But repenting, and complying. 
When he kissM she kiss'd again : 

Kiss'd him up before his dying ; 
Kiss'd him up and eas'd his pain. 



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SOI^GS OF ENGLAND AND IRELAND. 113 

JEALOUSY, TYRANT OF THE MIND. 
JOHN DRYDEN. 

What State of life can be so blest^ 
As love that warms the Lover's breast ; 
Two souls in one ; the same desire 
To grant the bliss, and to require ? 
But if in heaven a hell we find, 
'Tis all from thee, 
O Jealousy ! 
Thou tyrant, tyrant Jealousy. 
Thou tyrant of the mind. 

All other ills, though sharp they prove. 
Serve to refine and perfect love : 
In absence, or unkind disdain. 
Sweet hope relieves the lovers pain : 
But, oh, no cure but death we find 
To set us free. 
From Jealousy, 
O Jealousy ! 
Thou tyrant, tyrant Jealousy. 
Thou tyrant of the mind. 

False in thy glass all objects are. 
Some set too near, and some too far : 
Thou art the fire of endless night. 
The fire that burns, and gives no light. 
All torments of the damn'd we find 
In only thee, 
O Jealousy ! 
Thou tyrant, tyrant Jealousy, 
Thou tyrant of the mind. 



VOL. I. 



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114 SONGS OF ENGLAND AND IRELAND. 

[Inserted by Dryden in his Tragi.comedy of Love Triampbant. 
TTjc Idea is probably taken from Herrick's Hesperides, p. 197, see 
t^bi^ lines beginning :— 

O Jealoasie that art 
The canker of the heart. 

Percy gave this Song the advantage of his poetical genius j what- 
tvtr the Dr. touched he generally improved.] 



YE HAPPY SWAINS, 

SIR GEORGE ETHEREGE. 

Bom 1686— Died l688. 

Ye happy swains, whose hearts are free 

From Love's imperial chain. 
Take warning, and be taught by me, 

T' avoid th* enchanting pain. 
Fatal, the wolves to trembling flocks. 

Fierce winds to blossoms, prove. 
To careless seamen hidden rocks. 

To human quiet love. 

Fly the fair sex if bliss you prize ; 

The snake's beneath the flow'r : 
Who ever gaz'd on beauteous eyes. 

That tasted quiet more ? 
How faithless is the lovers joy I 

How constant is their care ! 
The kind with falsehood do destroy. 

The cruel with despair. 



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SONGS OF ENGLAND AND IRELAND. 115 



SEE HOW FAIR CORINNA LIES. 
SIR GEORGE ETHEREGE. 

See^ how fair Corinna lies^ 
Kindly calling with her eyes : 
In the tender minute prove her ; 
Shepherd ! why so dull a lover 
Prithee, why so dull a lover. 

In her blushes see your shame, — 
Anger they with love proclaim ; 
You too coldly entertain her : 
Lay your pipe a little by ; 
If no other charms you try. 
You will never, never gain her. 

While the happy minute is. 
Court her, you may get a kiss. 
May be, favours that are greater : 
Leave your piping to her fly ; 
When the nymph for love is nigh. 
Is it with a tune you treat her ? 

. Dull Amintor ! fie. Oh ! fie : 
Now your Shepherdess is nigh 
Can you pass your time no better. 

[In Southern's " Disappointment, or the Mother in Fashion."] 



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116 86N08 OF ENGLAND AND IBELAND. 



ON A YOUNG LADY WHO SUNG FINELY, AND WAS 
AFRAID OF A COLD. 

, LORD ROSCOMMON. 

Died 1684. 

Winter, thy cruelty extend. 
Till fatal tempests swell the sea, 
In vain let sinking pilots pray ; 

Beneath thy yoke let nature bend. 
Let piercing frost, and lasting snow, 
ITirough woods and fields destruction sow ! 

Yet we unwoo'd will sit and smile. 
While you these lesser ills create, 
These we can bear ; but gentle Fate, 

And thou, bless'd genius of our isle. 
From Winter's rage defend her voice. 
At which the listening Gods rejoice. 

May that celestial sound each day 
With ecstacy transport our souls. 
Whilst all our passion it controuls. 

And kindly drives our cares away ; 
Let no ungentle cold destroy 
All taste we have of heavenly joy ! 



[Tbe Life of the Earl of Roscommon has been written with great 
clegiaiice by Dr. Johnson. He was bom in Ireland during the lieu- 
tf-niuicy of his Unde and Godfather Lord Strafford.] 



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SONGS OF ENGLAND AND IRBT^ND. 117 

TO ALL YOU LADIES NOW AT LAND. 

LORD DORSET. 
Born 1637--Died 1706. 

To all you Ladies now at land. 

We men at sea indite ; 
But first would have you understand 

How hard it is to write ; 
The muses, now, and Neptune too, 
We must implore to write to you. 
With a fa la, la, la, la. 

For though the muses should prove kind, 

And fill our empty brain ; 
Yet if rough Neptune rouse the wind 

To wave the azure main. 
Our paper, pen, and ink, and we. 
Roll up and down our ships at sea. 
With a fa, &c. 

Then, if we write not by each post. 

Think not we are unkind ; 
Nor yet conclude our ships are lost 

By Dutchmen or by wind : 
Our tears we'll send a speedier way. 
The tide shall bring them twice a day. 
With a fa, &c. 

The king, with wonder and surprise. 

Will swear the seas grow bold ; 
Because the tides will higher rise 

Than e'er they did of old : 



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118 SOifGS OF ENGLAND AND IRELAND. 

But let him know it is our tears 
Bring floods of grief to Whitehall-stairs. 
With a fa, &c. 

Should foggy Opdam chance to know 

Our sad and dismal story ; 
The Dutch would scorn so weak a foe. 

And quit their fort at Goree : 
For what resistance can they find 
From men who've left their hearts behind ? 

With a fa, &c. 

Let wind and weather do its worst, 

Be ye to us but kind ; 
Let Dutchmen vapour, Spaniards curse. 

No sorrow we shall find : 
'Tis then no matter how things go, 
Or who's our friend, or who's our foe. 

With a fa, &c. 

To pass our tedious hours a^yay, 

We throw a merry main. 
Or else at serious ombre play ; 

But why should we in vain 
Each other's ruin thus pursue ? 
We were undone when we left you. 

With a fa, &c. 

But now our fears tempestuous grow. 

And cast our hopes away ; 
Whilst you, regardless of our woe. 

Sit careless at a play ; 
Perhaps permit some happier man 
To kiss your hand, or flirt your fan. 

With a fa, &c. 



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SONGS OF ENGLAND AND IRELAND. 1 19 

Wheu any mournful tune you hear. 

That dies in every note. 
As if it sigh'd with each man's care 

For being so remote ; 
Think then how often love we've made 
To you, when all those tunes were play'd. 

With a fo, &c. 

In justice you cannot refuse 

To think of our distress ; 
When we, for hopes of honour, lose 

Our certun happiness : 
All those designs are but to prove 
Ourselves more worthy of your love. 

With a fa. &c. 

And now we've told you all our loves. 

And likewise all our fears ; 
In hopes this declaration moves 

Some pity for our tears. 
Let's hear of no inconstancy. 
We have too much of that at sea. 

With a fa, la, la, 1«, la. 



[Thii Song " written at sea, in the first Dutch war, I66i, (be nif ht 
before an Engagement," is the composftion of Charles, Sixth Earl 
of Dorset, according to Horace Walpoie, " the finest gentlenian in 
the volaptnoos court of Charles II.'* Dr. Johnson heard from Lord 
Orrery that ** he had been a week about it and only retouched it or 
finished it on the memorable Evening.'* See Johnson's Life of 
Dorset. " The grace of courts, the Moses pride."] 



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130 80N08 OF ENOI«AND AND IRELAND. 

LOVE AND CONSTANCY. 
A NEW PLAY-80NO. 

I never saw her face till now. 

That could my fancy move, 
I liked, and ventured many a vow. 

But durst not think of love. 
Till beauty charming every sense. 

An easy conquest made. 
And show'd the vainness of defence 

Wlien Phillis doth invade. 

But ah, her colder heart denies 

The thoughts her looks inspire. 
And while in ice that frozen lies. 

Her eyes dart only fire. 
Between extremes I am undone. 

Like plants to northward set. 
Burnt by two violent a sun. 

Or cold for want of heat. 

Twixt hope and fear I tortur*d am. 

And vainly wish for ease. 
The more I struggle with my flame ; 

The more it doth increase. 
I woo'd and woo*d to be releas'd 

From these soft chains I made. 
But if I strive Pm more opprest 

When Phillis does invade. 

O cruel love why dost thou deign 
To wound me with such smart. 

And not an e^ual shaft retdn 
To melt her frozen heart. 



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SONGS OF ENGLAND AND IRELAND. 121 

Or does she struggle with the flame 

Victorious to be said I 
For if she does, my hopes are Tiun 

Though Phillis does invade. 



[From Evans* Old Ballads, 4 vols. Svo. 1810, who copied it from 
*' a loyal Garland of New Songs, l2mo. black letter, in the Pepys' 
Collection." See vol. 4, p. 353, Ritson*s Editor and Ritson himself 
give merely the two first verses and attribute it to Southern I See 
his Flay the ** Disappointment or Mother in Fashion," where 
Southern himself says that it was written by the Hon*ble Colonel 
SackvUle.] 



A FAREWELL TO LOVE. 

SIR CHARLES SEDLEY. 

Bom 1639— Died 1701. 

Once more Loves mighty charms are broke. 

His strength and cunning I defy ; 
Once more I have thrown off his yoke. 

And am a man, and do despise the boy. 

Thanks to her pride, and her disdain. 
And all the follies of a scornful mind : 

Pd ne'er possessed my heart again. 
If fiair Miranda had been kind. 

Welcome, fond wanderer, as ease. 

And plenty to a wretch in pain. 
That worn with want and a disease. 

Enjoys his health, and all his friends again. 

Let others waste their time and youth. 
Watch and look pale, to gain a peevish mtdd. 

And learn too late this dear-bought truth. 
At length they're sure to be betray'd. 



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12^ SONGS OF ENGLAND AND IRELAND. 



TO A VERY YOUNGf LADY. 
SIB CHARLES 8EDLBY. 

Ah Chloris ! that I now could sit* 

As unconcernMy as when 
Your infant beauty could beget 

No pleasure, nor no pain.f 

When I the dawn used to admire^ 
And prais'd the coming day ; 

I little thought the growing § fire 
Must II take my rest away. 

Your charms in harmless childhood lay, 

Like metals in the mine. 
Age from no face took more away, 

Than youth conceal'd in thine. 

But as your charms insensibly 

To their perfection prest. 
Fond IT Love as unperceiv'd did fly, 

Arid in my bosom rest.** 

My passion with your beauty grew, 

Audft Cupid at my heart. 
Still as his mother favour'd you. 

Threw a new flaming dart. 



Variations In the common copies. 

* " Could I now bat sit." 

t No happiness nor pain. t The dawning did admire. 

I Risingr. I Would. f So. 

** And cent«r'd in my breast. tt While. 



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SONGS OF ENGLAND AND IRELAND. 123 

Each gloried in their wanton part. 

To make a lover, he 
EmployM the utmost of his art. 

To make a Beauty, she. 

Though now I slowly bend to love 

Uncertain of my fate. 
If your fair self my chains approve, 

I shall my freedom hate. 

Lovers, like dying men, may well 

At first disorder'd be. 
Since none alive can truly tell 

What Fortune they must see. 



[From " the Mulberry Garden, a Comedy wriften by the Honourable 
Sir Charles Sidley/' 4to. 1666. This Song is commonly printed as 
the production of ** the Right Honoorable Duncan Forbes, Lord 
President of the Court of Session, and composed in 1710." See 
Motherwell's Ancient Minstrelsy, p. 65 ; and another Editor adds 
that these ** tender and pathetic stanzas were addressed to Miss Mary 
Rose, the elegant accomplished daughter of Hugh Rose, Esq. of 
Kilravock, whom he afterwards married !" Ritson commences his 
Collection of English Songs with Sedley's verses, both Ritson and Park 
were ignorant of their Author, and Mr. Chambers, in his Scotish 
Songs, starts with it as a genuine production of old Scotland I In 
Johnson's Musical Museum it is directed to be sung to the tune of 
Gilderoy. The two last verses are not in the other versions. Forbes 
was bom in 1686, seventeen years after the appearance of Sedley's 
comedy.] 



TO CELIA. 
SIR CHARLES SEDLET. 

Not, Celia, that I juster am 

Or better than the rest ; 
For I would change each hour like them. 

Were not my heart at rest. 



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1^4 SONGS OF ENGLAND AND IRELAND. 

But I am tied to very thee 
By every thought I have : 

Thy face I only care to see. 
Thy heart I only crave. 

All that in woman is ador'd. 

In thy dear self I find ; 
For the whole sex can but afford 

The handsome and the kind. 

Why then should I seek farther store. 
And still make love anew ? 

When change itself can give no more, 
'Tis easy to be true ! 



TO THYRSIS. 

SIR CHARLES SEDLEY. 

Thyrsis, unjustly you complain. 

And tax my tender heart 
With want of pity for your pain. 

Or sense of your desert. 

By secret and mysterious springs, 
Alas ! our passions move ; 

We women are fantastic things. 
That like before we love. 

You may be handsome and have wit. 

Be secret and well bred. 
The person loved must be as fit. 

He only can succeed. 



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SONGS OF ENGLAND AND IRELAND. 125 

Some die, yet never are believed; 

Others we trust too soon. 
Helping ourselves to be deceived, 

And proved to be undone. 



COME CHLORIS. 



Come, Ghloris, hie we to the bower. 
To sport us ere the day be done ! 

Such is thy power that every flower 
Will ope to thee as to the sun. 

And if a flower but chance to die 
With ray sighs blast or mine eyes rain. 

Thou canst revive it with thine eye. 
And with thy breath make sweet again. 

The wanton suckling, and the vine. 
Will strive for th' honour, who first may 

With their green arms encircle thine. 
To keep the burning sun away. 



[From " The Academj of Complimeats/* 1671.] 



CONSTANCY. 

JOHN WILMOT, LORD ROCHESTER. 
Born 1648— Died 1680. 

I cannot change, as others do. 
Though you unjustly scorn : 

Since that poor swain who sighs for you 
For you alone was born. 



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126 SONGS OF ENGLAND AND IRELAND. 

No, Phillis, no, your heart to move, 

A surer way I'll try : 
And to revenge my slighted love. 

Will still love on and die. 

When killed with grief, Amyntas lies ; 

And you to mind shall call 
The sighs that now unpitied rise. 

The tears that vainly fall : 
That welcome hour that ends this smart. 

Will then begin your pain ; 
For such a faithful tender heart 

Can never break in vain. 



[Thc^ iSnngB of the celebrated Lord Rochester, are his only writingrs 
fr^G from Indecency. Horace Walpole happily characterised his 
verse 119 having " much more obscenity than wit, more wit than 
poetrr, inore poetry than politeness.**] 



AN IMITATION OF CORNELIUS GALLUS. 
JOHN WILMOT, LORD ROCHESTER. 

My Goddess Lydia, heavenly fair. 

As lilies sweet, as soft as air ; 

Let loose thy tresses, spread thy charms. 

And to ray love give fresh alarms. 

O let me gaze on those bright eyes. 
Though sacred lightning from them flies : 
Shuw me that soft, that modest grace, 
^Vbich paints with charming red thy face. 



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SONGS OP ENGLAND AND IRELAND. 1^7 

Give me ambrosia in a kiss. 
That I may rival Jove in bliss ; 
That I may mix my soul with thine. 
And make the pleasure all divine. 

O hide thy bosom's killing white, 
(The milky way is not so bright) 
Lest you my ravish'd soul oppress. 
With beauty's pomp and sweet excess. 

Why di:aw8't thou from the purple flood 
Of my kind heart the vital blood ? 
Thou art all over endless charms ; 
O ! take me, dying* to thy arms. 



FROM ANACREON. 
JOHN WILMOT, LORD ROCHESTER. 

Vulcan, contrive me such a cup 

As Nestor us'd of old ; 
Show all thy skill to trim it up. 

Damask it round with gold. 

Make it so large, that, filPd with sack 

Up to the swelling brim. 
Vast toasts in the delicious lake. 

Like «hips at sea, may swim. 

Engrave not battle on his cheek. 
With war I've nought to do ; 

Vm none of those that took Maestrich, 
Nor Yarmouth leaguer knew. 



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1%3 SONGS OF ENGLAND AND IRELAND. 

Let it no name of planets tell, 
Fix'd stars or constellations ; 

For I am no Sir Sydrophel, 
Nor none of his relations. 

But carve thereon a spreading vine. 
Then add two lovely boys ; 

Their limbs in am'rous folds entwine. 
The type of future joys. 

Cupid and Bacchus my saints are, . 

May drink and love still reign ; 
With wine I wash away my care. 

And then to love again. 



I 



WHILST ON THOSE LOVELY LOOKS I GAZE. 
JOHN WILMOT, LORD ROCHESTER. 

Whilst on those lovely looks T gaze. 

To see a wretch pursuing. 
In raptures of a blest amaze. 

His pleasing happy ruin ; 
'Tis not for pity that I move ; 

His fate is too aspiring. 
Whose heart, broke with a load of love. 

Dies wishing and admiring. 

But if this murder you'd forego. 
Your slave from death removing. 

Let me your art of charming kuow« 
Or learn you mine oT loving. 



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SONGS OF ENGLAND AND IRELAND. 129 

But whether life or death betide. 

In love 'tis equal measure; 
The victor lives with empty pride. 

The vanquish'd die with pleasure. 



TROM ALL UNEASY PASSIONS FREE. 

JOHN SHEFFIELD^ DUKE OF BUCKINGHABI. 

Bon about 1650— Died 1721 

From all uneasy passions free. 
Revenge, ambition, jealousy ; 
Contented I had been too blest. 
If love and you had let me rest. 
Yet that dull life I now despise : 

Safe from your eyes, 
I fear'd no griefs, but then I found no joys. 

Amidst a thousand kind desires ; 
Which beauty moves, and love inspires 
Such pangs I feel of tender fear. 
No heart so soft as mine can bear. 
Yet Pll defy the worst of harms. 

Such are your charms, 
'Tis worth a life to die within your arms. • 



TOL. I. 



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130 



SONGS OF KNOLAVD AND IRELAND. 



THE RBCONCILEMENT. 
JOHN 8HBFF1BLD, DUKS OF BUC|LINGHAM. 

Come, let us now resolve at last 

To live and love in quiet ; 
We'll tie the knot so very fast. 

That time shall ne'er untie it 

The truest joys they seldom prove. 
Who free from quarrels live ; 

'Tis the most tender part of love. 
Each other to forgive. 

When least I seem'd concernM, I took 

No pleasure, nor no rest ; 
And when I feign'd an angry look, 

Alas ! I lov'd you best. 

Own but the same to me, you'll find 
How blest will be our fate ; 

Oh, to be happy, to be kind. 
Sure never is too late. 



t 



SONG IN " THE ORPHAN." 
THOMAS OTWAY. 

Bom 1651—Died 1685. 

Come all ye youths whose hearts e'er bled 

By cruel beauty's pride. 
Bring each a garland on his head. 

Let none his sorrows hide ; 



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t. 



SONGS OF XNGLANO AND IRELAND. 131 

But hand in hand aroand me move. 
Singing the saddest tales of love ; 
And see, when your complaints ye join. 
If all your wrongs can equal mine. 

The happiest mortal once was I, 

My heart no sorrow knew ; 
I^ty the pain with which I die. 

But ask not whence it grew ; 
Yet if a tempting fair you find. 
That's v^ry lovely, very kind. 
Though bright as heav'n whose stamp she bears. 
Think on my fate and shun her snares. 



SONG AFTER A WEDDING. 

THOMAS SOUTHERNE. 

Born 1660— Died 1746. 

The danger is over, the battle is past, 
The nymph had her fears but she ventured at last ; . 
She try'd the encounter, and when it was done, 
She smil'd at her folly, and own'd slie had won. 
By her eyes we discover the bride has pleas'd. 
Her blushes become her, her passion is eas'd ; 
She dissembles her joy and affects to look down ; 
If she sighs, — ^'tis for sorrow 'tis ended so soon. 

Appear all you virgins, both aged and young. 
All you, who have carried that burden too long. 
Who have lost precious time, and you who are losing 
Betray'd by your fears between doubting and chusing, 



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132 SONGS OF ENGLAND AND IRELAND. 

Draw nearer^ and learn what will settle your mind ; 
You'll find yourselves happy when once you are kind. 
Do but wisely resolve the sweet venture to run 
You'll feel the loss little and much to be won. 



[In the Fatal Marriage, &c.] 



A LASS THERE LIVES UPON THE GREEN. , 

A lass there lives upon the green 

Could I her picture draw ; 
A brighter nymph was never seen. 
That looks and reigns a little queen. 

And keeps the swains in awe. 

Her eyes are Cupid's dart and wings. 

Her eyebrows are his bow ; 
Her silken hair the silver strings 
Which sure and swift destruction brings 

To all the vale below. 

If Pastorella's dawning light 

Can warm, and wound us so : 
Her noon will shine so piercing bright. 
Each glancing beam will kill outright 
And every swain subdue. 



[Ixi Southerners " Oroonoko," l699> said there to be written by Sir 
Barry Sheers.] 



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S0NO8 OF ENGLAND AND IRELAND. 133 



CYNTHIA. 

Bright Cynthia's power divinely great. 
What heart is not obeying ? 

A thousand Cupids on her wait 
And in her eyes are playing. 

She seems the queen of love to reign 

For she alone dispenses 
Such sweets, as best can entertain 

The guest of all the senses. 

Her face a charming prospect brings $ 
Her breath gives balmy blisses : 

I hear an angel when she sings. 
And taste of Heaven in kisses. 

Four senses thus she feasts with joy. 
From Nature's richest treasure : 

Let me the other sense employ 
And I shall die with pleasure. 



[In Southeme't " Oroonoko."] 



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134 SONGS OF ENGLAND AND IRELAND. 

IN VAIN YOU TELL. 
MATTHEW PRIOR. 
Bora l86i— Died 17S1. 

Id Tain you tell your parting lover— 
You wish fair winds may waft him OYcr : 
Alas ! what winds can hi^py prove. 
That bear me far from what I love ? 
Can equal those that I sustain. 
From slighted vows and cold disdun I 

Be gentle, and in pity choose 

To wish the wildest tempests loose. 

That, thrown again upon the coast 

Where first my ship-\vreck'd heart was lost, 

I may once more repeat my pain ; 

Once more in dying notes complain 

Of slighted vows and cold disdain. 



IF WINE AND MUSIC HAVE THE POWER. 
MATTHEW PRIOR. 

If wine and music have the power 

To ease the sickness of the soul. 
Let Phoebus every string explore. 

And Bacchus fill the sprightly bowl : 
Let them their friendly aid employ 

To make my Chloe's absence light. 
And seek for pleasure to destroy 

The sorrows of this live long night. 



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0ONO8 OF ENGLANP AND IRELAND. }35 

But she to-morrow will return : 

Venus, be thou to-morrow great ; 
Thy m3rrtles strew, thy odours burn. 

And meet thy favourite nymph in state. 
Kind goddess, to no other powers 

Let us to-morrow's blessings own. 
Thy darling Love shall guide the hours. 

And all the day be thine alone. 



AMYNTA. 



MATTHEW PRIOR. 



Let peijur'd, fair Amynta know 
What for her sake I undergo ; 
Tell her, for her how I sustain 
A lingering, fever** wasting pain ; 
Tell her the torments I endure. 
Which only, only she can cure. 

But, oh ! she scomd to hear or see 
The wretch that lies so low as me; 
Her sudden greatness turns her brain. 
And Strephon hopes, alas ! in vain ! 
For ne'er 'twas found (though often tried) 
That Pity ever dwelt with Pride. 



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136 S0NO8 OF ENGLAND AND IRELAND. 



NELLY. 
MATTHEW PRIOR. 

Whilst Others proclaim 
This nymph or that swain. 

Dearest Nelly, the lovely I'll sing ; 
She shall grace every verse, 
ril her beauties rehearse. 

Which lovers can't think an ill thing. 

Her eyes shine as bright 
As stars in the night ; 

Her complexion divinely is fair ; 
Her lips red as a cherry, 
Would a hermit make merry. 

And black as a coal is her hair. 

Her breath, like a rose. 
Its sweets does disclose. 

Whenever you ravish a kiss ; 
Like ivory enchased. 
Her teeth are well placed ; 

An exquisite beauty she is. 

She's blooming as May, 
Brisk, lively, and gay. 

The graces play all round about her ; 
She's prudent and witty. 
Sings wondrously pretty. 

And there is no living without her. 



^ 



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SONGS OF ENGLAND AND IRELAND. 137 

THE GARLAND. 

MATTHEW PRIOR. 

The pride of every grove I chose^ 

The violet sweet and lily fair. 
The dappled pink and blushing rose. 

To deck my charming Chloe's hair. 

At mom the nymph vouchsafed to place 
Upon her brow the various wreath ; 

The flowers less blooming than her face. 
The scent less fragrant than her breath. 

The flowers she wore along the day. 
And every nymph and shepherd said. 

That in her hair they looked more gay 
Than glowing in their native bed. 

UndressM at evening when she found 
Their odours lost, their colours past. 

She changed her look and on the ground 
Her garland and her eye she cast. 

That eye droppM sense distinct and clear. 
As any Muse's tongue could speak. 

When from its lid a pearly tear 
Ran trickling down her beauteous cheek. 

Dissembling what I knew too well. 

My love, my life, (said I) explain 
This change of humour ; prythee tell. 

That falling tear, what does it mean ? 



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138 SONGS OF £NGLJUVD AND IRELAND. 

She 8igh'd, she smil'd — ^and to the flowers 
Pointing', the lovely moralist sud. 

See, friend, in some few fleeting hours. 
See yonder what a change is made ! 

Ah me ! the blooming pride of May 
And that of beauty are but one ; 

At mom both flourish, bright and gay^ 
Both fade at evening, pale and gone. 

At dawn poor Stella danc'd and sung, 
The amorous yoiith around her bow'd. 

At night her fatal knell was rung ; 
I saw and kiss'd her in her shroud. 

Such as she is who died to-day. 
Such I, alc^s I may be to-morrow 5 

Go, Damon, bid thy muse display 
The justice of thy Chloe's sorrow. 



I SMILE AT LOVE, AND ALL HIS ARTS. 
SIR JOHN YANBRUGH. 

Bom 1660— Didd 1^6. 

" I smile at Love, and all his arts,'' 
The charming Cynthia cried,— 

" Take heed for Love has piercing darts," 
A wounded swain replied. 

*^ Once free and blest as you are now, 

I trifled with his charms, 
I pointed at his little bow^ 

And sported with his arms ; 



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SONGS OF ENGLAND AND IBBLAND* 139 

TUl ur^d too far—* Revenge/ he cries ! 

A fatal shaft he drew, 
Whleh took its passage thro' your eyes. 

And to my heart it flew : 

To tear it thence I tried in vain. 

To strive, I quickly found. 
Was only to increase the pain. 

And mortify the wound ; 

Too well, alas ! I fear, you know 

What anguish I endure. 
Since what your eyes alone could do. 

Your heart alone can cure." 



{Tbe composition of the -well-known author of " The Relapse,*' and 
"The Provoked Wife," and the architect of Castle Howard and 
Blenheim. He has been satirized by Swift, and praised by Sir Joshua 
Reynolds. See his Life in the Britidi Architects by Allan Can- 
nin^am.] 



A TRANSLATION FROM SAPPHO. 
AMBROSE PHILIPS. 
Bom. [1671]— Died 1749. 

Blest as the immortal gods is he. 
The youth who fondly sits by thee. 
And hears and sees thee all the while 
Softly speak and sweetly smile ! 

Twas this bereav'd my soul of rest. 
And rais'd such tumults in my breast ; 
For while I gaz'd in transport tost. 
My breath was gone, my voice was lost : 



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140 SONGS OF ENGLAND AND IRELAND. 

My bosom glowed ; the subtle flame 
Ran quick through all my vital frame; 
O'er my dim eyes a darkness hung. 
My ears with hollow murmurs rung : 

In dewy damps my limbs were chill'd. 
My blood with gentle horrors thrill'd. 
My feeble pulse forgot to play, 
I fainted, sunk, and died away. 



BELVIDERA. 
AMRROSE PHILIPS. 



On Belvidera's bosom lying, 
Wishing, panting, sighing, dying ; 
The cold regardless maid to move 

With unavailing pray'rs I sue ; 
You first have taught me how to love. 

Ah ! teach me to be happy too ! 

But she, alas ! unkindly wise. 
To all my sighs and tears replies, 
'Tis every prudent maid's concern. 

Her lover's fondness to improve ; 
If to be happy you should learn. 

You quickly would forget to love. 



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aONOS OF fiNOLAND AND IRELAND. 141 

ZELINDA. 
AMBROSE PHILIPS. 

Why we love and why we hate 
, Is not granted us to know. 
Random chance, or wilful fate — 
Guides the shaft from Cupid's bow. 

If on me Zelinda frown. 

Madness 'tis in me to grieve. 
Since her will is not her own. 

Why should I uneasy live ? 

If I for Zelinda die. 

Deaf to poor Mizella's cries : 
Ask me not the reason why ? 

Seek the riddle in the skies. 



FALSE •1;H0UGH SHE BE. 
WILLIAM CONOREVE. 

Born 1673— Died 1729. 

False though she be to me and love, 

I'll ne'er pursue revenge ; 
For still the charmer I approve, 
• Though I deplore her change. 

In hours of bliss we oft have met. 
They could not always last ; 

And though the present I regret 
I'm grateful for the past. 



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I4i S0N08 or BNOI«AND.AND IBSLAND. 

S A B I N A. 
WILLIAM CONOREVE. 



il 



See, see she wakes, Sabina wakes ! 

And now the sun begins to rise ; 
Less glorious is the n^orn that breaks 

From his bright beams, than her fair eyes. 

With light united Day they give. 
But different fates ere night fulfill ; 

How many by his warmth will live ! 
How many will her coldness kill. 



THE SERENADE. 

TOM d'uRFEY. 

Died 1728. 

The larks awake the drowsy morn. 

My dearest lovely Chloe rise. 
And with thy dazzling rays adorn, 

The ample world and» azure skies ; 
Each eye of thine outshines the sun, 

llio' deck'd in all his light ; 
As much as he excels the moon. 
Or each small twinkling star at noop, 

Or meteor of the night. 

Look down and see your beauty's power. 
See, see the heart in which you reign ; 

No conquer'd slave in triumph bore. 
Did ever wear so strong a chain : 



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SONGS OF ENGLAND AND IR8LAN0. 143 

Feed me with smiles that I may live^ 

I'll ne'er wish to be free ; 
Nor even hope for kind reprieve 
Or Love's grateful bondage leave 

For immortality. 

tFtom"the Ii^nred Princess, or the Fatal Wagrer/* 4to. iSes. 
D'Urfef lies buried in the chnrch^yard of St. James' Piccadillf} a 
tablet in the wall fuing JennTn Street bears this inscriptioB in large 
letters. 

TOM D'URFEY 

DYBD FEB'' y* ^6^ 17M. 



LOVE'S REVENGE. 

The world was hush'd, and nature lay 

Lull'd in a soft repose. 
As I in tears reflecting lay 

On Chloe's faithless vows : 
The god of love all gay appeared 

To heal my wounded heart ; 
New pangs of joy my soul endear'd 

And pleasure charm'd each part : 
'* Fond man," said he, " here end thy woe 
Till they my power and justice know, 
The foolish sex will all do so." 

" But for thy ease believe no bliss 

Is perfect without pain ; 
The fairest summer hurtful 4b 

Without some showers of rain ! 
The joys of Heav'n who would prize 

If men too cheaply bought : 
The dearest part of mortal joys. 

Most charming is when sought : 



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144 SONGS OF ENGLAND AND IRELAND. 

And though with dross true love they pay. 
Those that know finest metal say. 
No gold will coin without allay. 

But that the generous lover may, . 

Not always sigh in vain ; 
The cruel nymph that kills to-day 

To-morrow shall be slain." 
The little god no sooner spoke. 

But from my sight he flew ; 
And I that groan'd with Chloe's yoke 

Found Love's revenge was true : 
Her proud hard heart too late did turn 
With fiercer flames than mine did burn. 
Whilst I as much began to scorn. 



[From D»Urfey»8 " Pills to Purge Melancholy," vol. 2, p. 305.] 



MUSIDORA. i. 



Opening buds began to shew. 

The beauty of their vernal treasure, 4 

Spring had routed frost and snow. 

Obeying Flora's pleasure : -i 

Damon by a river's side. 
Whose silver streams did gently glide^ 
Compar'd his blessings to the tide. 

That flow'd1)eyond all measure. 

Musidora fair and young. 

With panting rapture still alarms me. 
Motion, shape, or charming tongue. 

All raise a flame that warms me : 



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>-. 



SONGS OF ENGLAND AND IRELAND. 145 

Eyes excelling Titan's ray. 
But whea she's most divinely g%j 
And kindly deigns to sing and play. 
Oh Venus how she charms me. 

Sylvia, dearest of all dear^, 

Charm'd by nature to content ye. 
In her face the figures wears 

Of Pleasure, Joy, and Plenty : 
Kindling hopes, and doubts and fears, — 
The young enchants, the old she cheers. 
So well she makes dull seventy years 

Grow brisk as five-and-twenty/ 



[From D'Urfey'8 " Pills to Purge Melancholy," vol. l.p. 181, he calls 
it " a New Sooy, the words made to a pretty Scotch air.'*] 



FOR WINE, PURE WINE. 

Let soldiers fight for prey or praise. 
And money be the miser's wish. 

Poor scholars study all their days. 
And gluttons glory in their dish : 

Tis wine, pure wine revives sad souls ; 

Therefore fill us the cheering bowls. 

Let minions marshsd every hair. 
And in a lover's lock delight. 

And artificial colours wear ; 
We have the native red and white : 

'Tis wine, pure wine revives sad souls. 

Therefore fill us the cheering bowls. 

▼OL. I. I, 



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146 SONGS OF ENGLAND AND IRELAND. 

It makes the backward spirit brave. 
That lively which before was dull ; 

Opens the heart that loves to save. 
And kindness flows from cups brimfull : 

'Th wine, pure wine revives sad souls, 

Therefore fill us' the cheering bowls. 

Some men want youth, and others health. 
Some want a wife and some a punk. 

Some men want wit and others wealth ; 
But they want nothing that are drunk : 

'Tis wine, pure wine revives sad souls ; 

Therefore give us the cheering bowls. 



[Prom the Tea Table Miscellany. Tom D'Urfey gives it to Ben 
J0D8OD, without stating a reason for so doing. Ritson and Park 
suppose it to be the composition of Ben Johnson, D'Urfey's contem. 
poraryj bat I find it not in Johnson's Poems printed 167s. Ritson 
gives additional verses in praise of Westphalia hams wliich are here 
omitted.] 

BACCHUS. 

While the lover is thinking, 

With my friend I'll be drinking. 
And with vigour pursue my delight ; 

While the fool is designing 

His fatal confining. 
With Bacchus TU spend the whole night. 

With the god I'll be jolly. 

Without madness or folly. 
Fickle woman to marry implore ; 

Leave my bottle and friend. 

For so foolish an end ! 
When I do may I never drink more. 

[From the Tea Table Miscellany.] 



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SONGS or ENGLAND AND IRELAND. 147 



IN PRAISE OF DRINK. 

Jolly mortals, fill your glasses ; 

Noble deeds are done by wine ; 
Scorn the nymph and all her graces : 

WhoM for love or beauty pine ? 

Look upon the bowl that's flowing^ 
And a thousand charms you'll find. 

More than in Chloe when just going. 
In the moment to be kind. 

Alexander hated thinking ; 

Drank about at council board ; 
Made friends, and gain'd the world by drinking, 

More than by his conquering sword. 



C L A R O N A. 



Why does the morn in blushes rise 

And all its charms display ? — 
For my Clarona's glancing eyes. 

Outshine the brightest ray : 
Tis true, 'tis true, she's far more bright. 

Dim taper god be gone. 
And hide thy baffled beams in light. 

Let her rule day alone. 

If anchorite-like full twenty years 

On earth's cold bed I'd lain, 
And woo'd the gods with fasts and prayers 

Celestial crowns to gain : 



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148 SONGS OF ENGLAND AND IRELAND. 

Yet after all, could you but love. 
No more would I pursue 

The endless search of joys above. 
But find out Heav'n in you. 



D O R I N D A. 



Her eyes a^e like the morning bright. 

Her cheeks like rpses fair. 
Her breasts like water'd lilies white. 

Like silk her flowing hair. 

Her breath's as sweet ?is odours blown 

By Zephyrus on the vales ; 
Her skin as fine and soft as down. 

Her voice like nightingales. 

Where'er she breathes, where'er she sings 

How happy are the groves ; 
How blest ! how much more blest than kings. 

The Shepherd that she loves. 

With gentle steps let's beat the ground, • 

In gladsome couj^es join'd ; 
For joy that your Dorinda's found 

And every lover kind. 



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SONGS OF BNGLAND AND IRELAND. 149 



TO CHARMING CELIA'S ARMS 1 FLEW. 

TOM BBOWN. 

Died 17M. 
fFith alterations and additions by Burns. 

To charming Celia's arms I flew 
And there all night I feasted. 

No god such transport e?er knew. 
Or mortal ever tasted.* 

Lost in sweet tumultuous joy 
And bless'df beyond expressing. 

How can your slave, my fair, said I, 
Reward so great a blessing ? 

The whole creation's wealth survey. 
O'er J both the Indies wander. 

Ask what brib'd senates give away 
And fighting monarchs squander. 

The richest spoils of earth and air, 

The rifled ocean's treasure, 
Tis all too poor a bribe by far. 

To purchase so much p)easure.§ 



r Burns made the flrat verse thus :— 

The other night with all her charms 

Mf ardent passion crowning. 
Fair Celia sank within my arms 
An equal transport owning, 
t Fleas'd, t Thro*. s Unequal to my pleasure. 



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150 SONGS OF ENGLAND AND IRELAND. 

[Humility's a heavenly grace. 
And Diffidence her sister ; 

And Modesty's sweet maiden face — 
What mortal can resist her.] 

She blushing cried, — my Life my dear 
Since Celia thus you fancy. 

Give her — but tis too much I fear 
A rundlet of right Nantzy. 



[These alterations and additions of Burns* are taken from part of a 
letter of his to George Thomson, which is still onpablished. The 
verse given in a bracket is wholly Burns' and is very characteristic 
of him. " The Song," the poet writes, * * will suit very well to the tone 
of * Nancy's to the Greenwood gone,' you must not expect all your 
English Songs to have superlative merit, 'tis enough if they are 
passable !" Brown's works are full of shrewdness and conceit but his 
little talent was thrown away on indecency. He lies buried in the 
cloisters of Westminster Abbey.] 



LIKE MAY IN ALL HER YOUTHFUL DRESS. 

Like May in all her youthful dress. 

My love in sweets did once appear, 
A spring of charms dwelt on her face. 

And roses did inhabit there. 
Thus while th* enjoyment was but young. 

Each night new pleasures did create, 
Harmonious words dropp'd from her tongue. 

And Cupid on her forehead sate. 

But as the sun to west declines. 
The eastern sky does colder grow ; 

And all its blushing looks resigns 
To Luna's silver beams below : 



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SONGS OF ENGLAND AND IRELAND. 151 

While LoYC ^vas eager, brisk and warm 

My Chloe then was kind and gay ; 
But when through time I ceas'd to charm 

Her smiles like Autumn dropp'd away. 



ON YOUNG OLINDA. 

When innocence, and beauty meet. 
To add to lovely female grace. 

Ah, how beyond expression sweet 
Is every feature of the face. 

By Virtue, ripened from the bud 
The flower angelic odours breeds. 

The fragrant charms of being good 
Makes gaudy vice to smell like weeds. 

O sacred virtue, tune my voice. 
With thy inspiring harmony ; 

Then I shall sing of raptur'd joys 
And fill my soul with love of thee. 

To lasting brightness be refin'd. 
When this vain shadow flies away, 

Th' eternal beauties of the mind 
Will last, when all things else decay. 



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15^ SONGS OF ENGLAND AND IRBI^AND. 



AS I WALK'D FORTH ONE SUMMER'S DAY. 

As I walked forth one summer's day. 
To view the meadows green and gay — 
A cool-retreating bower I spied — 
That flourished near the river's side — 

Where oft in tears a maid would cry — 

Did ever maiden love as^ I. 

Then o'er the grassy fields she'd walk — 
Aqd nipping flowers low by the stalky 
Such flowers as in the meadow grew — 
The deadman's thumb— and harebell blue— 

And as she puU'd them, still cried she — 

Alas none ever lov'd like me. 

Such flowers as gave the sweetest scents 
She bound about with knotty bents. 
And as she bound them up in bands- 
She sighed and wept and wrung her hands ; 

Alas, alas ! still sobbed she, 

Alas I none ever lov'd like me. 

When she had fiU'd her apron full. 
Of all the flowers that she could cull — 
The tender leaves serv'd for a bed — 
The scented flowers to rest her head — 
Then down she laid — ^nor sigh'd nor spake — 
With love her gentle heart did break. 



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SONGS OF ENGLAND AND IRBLAND. 158 

W I N I F R E D A. 

Away; let nought to love displeasing. 

My Winifreda move your care ; 
Let nought delay the heavenly Messing, 

Nor squeamish pride, nor gloomy fear. 

What tho' no grants of royal donors 
With pompous titles grace our blood ; 

We'll shine in more substantial honors. 
And to be noble we'll be good. 

Our name, while virtue thus we tender. 
Will sweetly sound where-e'er 'tis spoke : 

And all the great ones they shall wonder 
How they respect such little folk. 

What though from fortune's lavish bounty 

No mighty treasures we possess ; 
We'll find within our pittance plenty. 

And be content without excess. 

Still shall each returning season 

Sufficient for our wishes give ; 
For we will live a life of reason. 

And that's the only life to live. 

Through youth and age in love excelling. 

We'll hand in hand together tread ; 
Sweet-smiling peace shdl crown our dwelling. 

And babes, sweet-smiling babes, our bed. 

How should I love the pretty creatures. 
While round my knees they fondly clung ; 

To see them look their mother's features. 
To hear them lisp their mother's tongue. 



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154 SONGS OF ENGLAND AND IRELAND. 

And when with eavy time transported. 
Shall think to rob us of our joys. 

You'll in your girls again be courted. 
And ril go wooing in my boys. 



[" This beaatifal address to coojagal love," says Dr. Percy, " a 
suliliect too mach neglected by the libertine Moses, was I believe first 
printed in a volame of * Miscellaneons Poems, by several hands, 
pablished by D. [David] Lewia^ I720,«vo.' It is tiiere said, how 
truly I know not, to be a translation * from the ancient British lan- 
guage.'" 

It has been printed with the name of Gilbert Cooper attached to it, 
and is given in the Edition of his Poems pablished under the care of 
Mr. Davenport. The poem appeared as Percy says in 1736, when 
Cooper was in his mother's arms, being bom in 1723 ! 

Since the above was written, the Editor has met with a volame of 
" Letters concerning taste," by Gilbert Cooper, pablished in 1755. bat 
without his name. In the sixteenth letter addressed to Leonora, he 
says he had an intention of sending her an Epithalamiom on her 
wedding day, " I shall," he adds, " take the liberty to send yon 
without any apology an old Song, wrote above a hundred years ago, 
upon a similar occasion, by the happy bridegroom himself. And tho* 
this old Song has been so little heard of, and as yet introduced into 
no modern Collection, I dare venture to pronounce there is in it more 
genuine poetry, easy turn of thought, elegance of diction, delicacy 
of sentiment, tenderness of heart, and natural taste for happiness, 
than in all the compositions of this sort, I ever read in any language." 
Then follows the Song of Winifreda, with a few verbal alterations. 

Dr. Aikin in his " Vocal Poetry," p. 152, says, " this pleasing deli- 
neation of conjugal and domestic felicity was first given by the 
Author (Gilbert Cooper) as * from the Ancient British,* Although 
this title was manifestly only a poetic Action, or rather a stroke of 
satire. Dr. Percy was strangely induced by it to insert the piece 
among his " Reliques of Ancient Poetry." 

The Song we must say is ** manifestly" not Gilbert Cooper's, 
though Park has printed it with his name, and Dr. Aikin was 
'* strangely induced to do the same," the verses have more true 
feeling in tiiem than even the beautiful Song of Bums'— beginning :— 

The day retoms, my bosom bums, 
The bliwfaU day we twa did meet] 



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SONGS OF ENGLAND AND lUELAHD. 155 



COLINS' COMPLAINT. 

NICHOLAS ROWE. 
Born 1673— Died 1718. 

Despairing beside a clear stream, 

A shepherd forsaken was laid ; 
And while a false nymph was his theme, 

A willow supported his head. 
The wind that blew over the plain. 

To his sighs with a sigh did reply j 
And the brook, in return to his pain. 

Ran mournfully murmuring by. 

Alas ! silly swain that I was ; 

Thus sadly complaining he cry'd ; 
When first I beheld that fair face, 

'Twere better by far I had died : 
She talk*d, and I bless'd her dear tongue ; 

When she smil'd, 'twas a pleasure too great ; 
I listened, and cry'd when she sung. 

Was nightingale ever so sweet ! 

How foolish was I to believe. 

She could dote on so lowly a clown, • 
Or that her fond heart woidd not grieve. 

To forsake the fine folk of the town ; 
To think that a beauty so gay. 

So kind and so constant would prove ; 
Or go clad like our mfudens in grey. 

Or live in a cottage on love } 



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156 SONGS OF SNOLAND AND IBBLAMD. 

What though I have skill to complain. 

The' the muses my temples have crown'd. 
What tho% when they heitr my soft strain. 

The vir^i^s sit weeping around ? 
Ah, Colin ! thy hopes are in vain. 

Thy pipe and thy laurel resign. 
Thy false one inclines to a swain. 

Whose music is sweeter than thine. 

All you, my companions so dear. 

Who sorrow to see me hetray'd. 
Whatever I suffer, forbear. 

Forbear to accuse tlie false mfud. 
Tho* thro* the wide world I shou'd range, 

'Tis in vain from my fortune to fly ; 
'Twas hers to be false and to change, 

Tis mine to be constant and die. 

If while my hard fate I sustain. 

In her breast any pity is found. 
Let her come with the nymphs of the plidn. 

And see me laid low in the ground : 
The last huiAble boon that I crave. 

Is to shade me with cypress and yew } 
And when she looks down on my grave. 

Let her own that her shepherd was true. 

Then to her new love let her go. 

And deck her in golden array ; 
Be finest at every fine show, 

And frolic it all the long day : 
While Colin, forgotten and gone. 

No more shall be talk'd of or seen. 
Unless when beneath the pale moon. 

His ghost shall glide over the green. 



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A0S7O6 or ENGLAND AND IRELAND. 157 

[Rowe alludes in fhis ballad to the Coiuite»>> Dowager of Warwick, 
who left him for another swain whose music was sweeter than his 
own, namely Addison. Dr. Johnson says that the Countess married 
the poetical Secretary of State on terms ** much like those on which 
a Turkish Princess is espoused, to whom ^e Sultan is reported to 
pronounce, ' Daughter, I give thee this man for thy slave.* ** A 
marriage so unequal made no addition to Addison's happiness.] 



MY DAYS HAVE BEEN SO WONDROUS FREE. 

DR. PARNELL. 
Bom 1071H-Died 1717. 

My days have been so wondrous fret. 

The little birds that fly 
V^th careless ease from tree to tree. 

Were but as bless'd as I. 

Ask gliding waters, if a tear 
Of mine increased their stream ? 

Or ask the flying gales, if e'er 
I lent one sigh to them ? 

But now my former days retire. 

And Pm by beauty caught. 
The tender chains of sweet desire 

Are fix'd upon my thought. 

Ye nightingales, ye twisting pines 1 
Ye swains that haunt the grove ! 

Ye gentle echoes, breezy winds ! 
Ye close retreats of love 1 



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15S 80NOS OF ENGLAND AND IRELAND. 

Witb all of nature, all of art. 

Assist the dear design ; 
O teach a young, unpractis'd heart 

To make my Nancy mine ! 

The very thought of change I hate. 

As much as of despair ; 
Nor ever covet to be great. 

Unless it be for her. 

*Tls true, the passion in my mind 
Is mix'd with soft distress ; 

Yet while the fair I love is kind, 
I cannot wish it less. 



WHEN THV beauty APPEARS. 

DR. PARNELL. 

When thy beauty appears. 
In its graces and airs, 
All bright as an angel new dropt from the sky; 
At distance I gaze^ and am aw'd by my fears. 
So strangely you dazzle my eye ! 

But when without art. 
Your kind thoughts you impart. 
When your love runs in blushes through every vein ; 
When it darts from your eyes, when it pants in 

your heart. 
Then I know you're a woman again. 



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SONGS OF ENGLAND AND IRELAND. 1 59 

There's a passion and pride 
In our sex, she replied. 
And thus (might I gratify both) I would do ; 
Still an angel appear to each lover beside. 
But still be a woman to you. 



THE LASS OF RICHMOND HILL. 

On Richmond Hill there lives a lass 

More bright than May-day morn. 
Whose charms all other maids surpass, 

A rose without a thorn. 
This lass so neat, with smiles so sweet. 

Has won my right good-will ; 
I'd crowns resign to call her mine. 

Sweet lass of Richmond Hill. 

Ye zephyrs gay, that fan the air. 

And wanton thro' the grove. 
Oh ! whisper to my charming fair, 

I die for her I love* 
How happy will the shepherd be 

Who calls this nymph his own ! 
Oh ! may her choice be fix'd on me. 

Mine's fix'd on her alone. 



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160 RON08 OF BNOLAKD AND IRELAND. 



A LOV^ SONG IN THE MODERN TASTE.— 1733. 

DEAN SWIFT. 

or 

ALEXANDER POPE. 

Born 1667— Died 1744. Bora 1668— Died 1744. 

Fluttering spread thy purple pinions. 
Gentle Cupid ! o'er my heart ; 

I a slave in thy dominions. 
Nature must give way to art. 

Mild Arcadians ever blooming. 
Nightly nodding o'er your flocks. 

Sec my weary days' consuming 
All beneath yon flowery rocks. 

Thus the Cyprian goddess weeping, 
Moum'd Adonis, darling youth. 

Him the boar, in silence creeping, 
Gor'd with unrelenting tooth. 

Cynthia, tune harmonious numbers. 
Fair Discretion, string the lyre. 

Sooth my ever waking numbers. 
Bright Apollo ! lend thy choir. 

Gloomy Pluto ! king of terrors, 
Arm'd in adamantine chains. 

Lead me to the crystal mirrors 
Wat'ring soft Elysian plains. 



k.. 



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SONGS OF ENGLAND AND IRELAND. 161 

Mournful cypress, verdant willow. 

Gilding my Aurelia's brows, 
Morpheus hov'ring o'er my pillow. 

Hear me pay my dying vows. 

Melancholy, smooth Meander 

Swiftly purling in a round. 
On thy margin lovers wander. 

With thy flow'ry chaplets crown*d. 

Thus when Philomela drooping. 

Softly seeks her silent mate ; 
See the birds of Juno stooping : 

Melody resigns to fate. 



[This exquisite satire on too many gongs is printed in Swift's 
Poetical Works, last edition hy Mltford, vol. ii. p. S3, and Pope*s 
Poetical Works, last edition by Dyce, vol. ii. p. 185, where it is 
entitled a " Song by a Person of Quality." Whose property is this 
song? the Dean's, or the nightingale of Twickenham's } In the fifth 
volume of Swift's Miscellanies, 1735, p. 129, it is printed in the midst 
of numerous pieces undoubtedly from the lean's pen.] 



SWEET ARE THE CHARMS OF HER I LOVE. 
BARTON BOOTH. 
Bom 1681— Died 1733. 

Sweet are the charms of her I love. 
More fra^ant than the damask rose ; 

Soft as the down of turtle dove. 
Gentle as air when Zephyr blows. 

Refreshing as descending rains 

To sun-burnt climes, and thirsty plains. 

VOL. I. M 



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16^ SONGS OP ENGLAND AND IRELAND. 

True as the needle to the pole. 

Or as the dial to the sun ; 
Constant as gliding waters roU, 

Whose swelling tides obey the moon ; 
From every other charmer free. 
My life and love shall follow thee. 

The lamb the flowery thyme devours. 
The dam the tender kid pursues ; 

Sweet Philomel in shady bowers 
Of verdant Spring her note renews ; 

All follow what they most admire. 

As I pursue my soul's desire. 

Nature must change her beauteous face. 
And vary as the seasons rise ; 

As winter to the spring gives place. 
Summer th' approach of autumn flies : 

No change on love the seasons bring. 

Love only knows perpetual spring. 

Devouring time, with stealing pace. 
Makes lofty oaks and cedars bow ; 

And marble tow'rs and gates of brass. 
In his rude march he levels low : 

But time, destroying far and wide. 

Love from the soul can ne'er divide. 

Death only, with his cruel dart, 
The gentle godhead can remove ; 

And drive him from the bleeding heart 
To mingle \vith the bless'd above. 

Where, known to all his kindred train. 

He finds a lasting rest from pain. 



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SONOS or SNOLAND AND IRELAND. 163 

Love> and his sister fur, the Soul> 
Twin-bom, from hea?'n together came : 

Love will the universe controul. 
When dying seasons lose their name ; 

Divine abodes shall own his pow'r. 

When time and death shall be no more. 



'TWAS WHEN THE SEAS WERE ROARING. 

XOHN GAY. 

Born Ides—Died 173S. 

*Tvva8 when the seas were roaring 

With hollow blasts of wind, 
A damsel lay deploring. 

All on a rock reclin'd : 
Wide o'er the foaming billows 

She cast a wishful look. 
Her head was crown'd with willows. 

That trembled o'er the brook. 

Twelve months are gone and over 

And nine long tedious days ; 
Why didst thou ventrous lover. 

Why didst thou trust the seas ? 
Cease, ceasey thou cruel ocean 

And let a lover rest ; 
Ah ! what's thy troubled motion 

To that within my breast ? 



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164 SONGS OF ENGLAND AND IRELAND. 

The merchant robb'd of pleasure 

Views tempests in despair ; 
But what*s the loss of treasure 

To losing of my dear? 
Should you some coast, be laid on 

Where gold and diamonds grow,- 
You'll find a richer maiden^ 

But none that loves you so. 

How can they say that nature 

Has nothing made in vain ; 
Why then beneath the water 

Do hideous rocks remain ? 
No eyes those rocks discover. 

That lurk beneath the deep. 
To wreck the wand'ring lover 

And leave the maid to weep. 

All melancholy lying 

Thus waird she for her dear. 
Repaid each blast with sighing. 

Each billow with a tear ; 
When o'er the white wave stooping. 

His floating corpse she *spied ; 
Then like a lily drooping 

She bow'd her head and died. 



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80NG8 OF ENGLAND AND IRELAND. 165 



MOLLY MOG, 
OR THE FAIR MAID OF THE INN. 

JOHN GAY. 

Says my uncle, * I pray you discover 
What hath been the cause of your woes. 

That you pine and you whine like a lover ? * 
' I have seen Molly Mog of the Rose.' 

* O nephew ! your grief is but folly. 

In Town you may find better prog ; * 
Half-a-crown there will get you a Molly, 
A Molly much better than Mog.' 

' I know that by wits 'tis recited 

That women at best are a clog ; 
But I'm not so easily frighted 

From loving of sweet Molly Mog. 

* The schoolboy's desire is a play-day. 

The schoolmaster's joy is to flog ; 

The milk-maid's delight is on May-day, 

But mine is on sweet Molly Mog. 

* Will-a-Wisp leads the traveller gadding 

Through ditch, and thro' quagmire, and bog ; 
But no light can set me a madding 
Like the eyes of my sweet MoUy Mog. 



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\6G SONCS OF ENGLAND AND IRELAND. 

' For guineas in other men's breeches 
Ypur gamesters' will palm and will cog ; 

But I envy them none of their riches. 
So I may win sweet Molly Mog. 

' The heart when half wounded is changing. 
It here and there leaps like a frog ; 

But my heart can never be ranging, 
'Tis so fix'd upon sweet Molly Mog. 

* Who follows all ladies of pleasure^ 

In pleasure is thought but a hog ; 
All the sex cannot give so good measure 
Of joys as my sweet Molly Mog. 

' I feel I'm in love to distraction. 

My senses all lost in a fog. 
And nothing can give satisfaction 

But thinking of sweet Molly Mog, 

* A letter when I am inditing. 
Comes Cupid and gives me a jog. 

And I fill all the paper with writing 
Of nothing but sweet Molly Mog. 

* If I would not give up the three graces, 

I wish I were hang'd like a dog. 
And at court all the drawing-room faces. 
For a glance of my sweet Molly Mog. 

' Those faces want nature and spirit. 
And seem as cut out of a log ; 

Juno, Venus, and Pallas's merit 
Unite in my sweet Molly Mog, 



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SONGS OP ENGLAND AND IRELAND. I67' 

' Those who toast all the family royal. 

In bumpers of Hogan and Nog, 
Have hearts not more true or more loyal 

Than mine to my sweet Molly Mog. 

' Were Virgil alive with his PhiUis, 

And writing another eclogue, . 
Both his Phillis and fair Amaryllis 

He'd give up for sweet Molly Mog. 

' When she smiles on each guest, like her liquor. 

Then jealousy sets me agog ; 
To be sure she's a bit for the vicar. 

And so I shall lose Molly Mog/ 



[This clever and witty ballad, though of great length, is very fre- 
quently sung ; it was written on an Innkeeper's daughter at Oaking- 
ham in Berkshire, a celebrated beauty and toast.] 



YOUTH'S THE SEASON MADE FOR JOYS. 

JOHN GAY. 

Youth's the season made for joys. 

Love is tken our (luty> 
She alone, who that employs 
Well deserves her beauty. 
Let's be gay 
♦While we may. 
Beauty's a flower despis'd in decay. 



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168 80MGS OF ENGLAND AND IRELAND. 

Let us drink and sport to-day. 

Ours is not to-morrow ; 
Love with youth flies swift away> 
Age is nought but sorrow. 
Dance and sing. 
Time's on the wing^ 
Lifa never knows the return of spring. 



[Prom the " Beggar's Opera.»'] 

GO, ROSE. 
JOHN GAY. 

Go, rose, my Chloe's bosom grace ; 

How happy should I prove, 
Might I supply that envied place 

With never fading* love ; 
There, Phoenix-like, beneath her eye 
Involved in fragrance, bum and die ! 

Know hapless flower, that thou shalt find 

More fragrant roses there ; 
I see thy withering head reclin'd 

With en\7 and despair. 
One common fate we both must prove. 
You die with envy^ I with love. 



[From the fable of " The Poet and ttie Rose,** thus introdaceU : — 

As in the cool of early day 
A poet sought the sweets of May, 
The garden's fragrant breath ascends. 
And every stalk with odour bends : 



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SONGS OF ENGLAND AND IRELAND. 1 69 

A rose, be placked, he gmz'd, admir'd 
Thus singing as the mose inspired :— 
" Go rose, &c. 

The poc;^ complained with trath, that : 

In every love song roses bloom.] 



SWEBT WILLIAM'S FAREWELL TO 

BLACK-EYED SUSAN. 

JOHN GAY. 

All in the Downs tlie fleet was moored. 

The streamers waving in the wind^ 
When black-ey'd Susan came on board, 

' Oh ! where shall I my true love find ? 
' Tell me, ye jovial sailors, tell me true, 
* If my sweet William sail among the crew.' 

William, then high upon the yard, 

Rock'd with the billows to and fro. 
Soon as her well-known voice he heard. 

He sighM, and cast his eyes below ; 
The cord slides quickly through his glowing hands. 
And (quick as lightning) on the deck he stands. 

So the sweet lark high poisM in air. 
Shuts close his pinions to his breast, 

(If chance his mate's shrill call he hear,) 
And drops at once into her nest. 

The noblest captain in the British fleet 

Might envy William's lips those kisses sweet. 



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170 80NG8 OF KN6I<AKI> AND mSI^AND, 

O Susan ! Sugan ! lovely dear ! 

My vows shall ever true remain ! 
Let roe kiss off that fedling tear— 

We only part to meet a^fain. 
Change as ye list^ ye winds, my heart shall be 
The faithful compass that still points to thee. 

Believe not what the landmen say. 
Who tempt with doubts thy constant mind ; 

They'll tell thee, sailors, when away. 
In every port a mistress find — 

Yes, yes, believe them when they tell thee so. 

For thou art present where^oe'er I go. 

If to far India's coast we sail, * 
Thine eyes are seen in diamonds bright ; 

Thy breath is Afric's spicy gale. 
Thy skin is ivory so white ; 

Thus ev'ry beauteous object that I view. 

Wakes in my soul some charm of lovely Sue. 

Tho' battle call me from thy arms. 

Let not my pretty Susan mourn : 
Tho' cannons roar, yet, safe from harms, 

William shall to his dear return : 
Love turns aside the balls that round me fly. 
Lest precious tears should drop from Susan's eye. 

The boatswain gave the dreadful word, 

The sails their swelling bosom spread ; 
No longer roust she stay aboard ; 

They kiss'd — she sigh'd — he hung his head : 
The lessening boat unwilling rows to land- 
Adieu ! she cries, and waved her lily hand. 



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SONOS OF 8N0LANP ANP IRELAND. I? I 

THE COMPLAINT. 

The sun was sunk beneath the hiU, 
The western clouds were lin'd with i^old. 

The sky was clear, the winds were still. 
The flocks were pent within the fold ; 

When from the silence of the grove. 

Poor Damon thus despair'd of love ! 

Who seeks to pluck the fragrant rose 
From the bare rock, or oozy beach ; 

Who from each barren weed that grows 
Expects the grape, or blushing peach ; 

With equal faith may hope to find 

The truth of love in womankind. 

I have no herds, no fleecy care. 
No fields that wave with golden grain. 

No pastures green, or gardens fair, 
A woman's venal heart to gain : 

Then all in vain my sighs must prove. 

For I, alas ! have nought but love. 

How wretched is the faithful youth. 

Since womens hearts are bought and sold ? 

They ask no vows of sacred truth. 
Whene'er they sigh, they sigh for gold. 

Gold can the frowns of scorn remove. 

But I, alas ! have nought but love. 

To buy the gems of India's coast. 
What wealth, what treasure can suffice ? 

Yet India's shore shall never boast 
The living lustre in thine eyes : 

For these the world too cheap would prove ; 

But I, alas ! have nought but love. 



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172 SONGS OF ENGLAND AND IRELAND. 

Then Mary ! since nor gems, nor ore. 

Can with thy brighter self compare. 
Consider that I offer more. 

Than glittering gems, a soul sincere : 
Let riches meaner beauties move. 
Who pays thy worth, must pay in love. 

[This very beaatifal Song; is printed with many variadons. I hare 
•elected the most poetical for the text, instead of " then Mary** some 
read " O Silvia ?" It has been imputed to Gay i] 



SALLY IN OUR ALLEY. 

HARRY CAREY. 

Bom >-Diedl748. 

Of all the girls that are so smart. 

There's none like pretty Sally ; 
She is the darling of my heart. 

And she lives in our alley. 
There is no lady in the land 

Is half so sweet as Sally ; 
She is the darling of my heart. 

And she lives in our alley. 

Her father he makes cabbage nets. 

And through the streets does cry 'em ; 
Her mother she sells laces long. 

To such as please to buy 'em : 
But sure such folks cou'd ne'er beget 

So sweet a girl as Sally ; 
She is the darling of my heatt. 

And she lives in our alley. 



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SONGS OF ENGLAND AND IRELAND. 173 

When she is by, I leave my work, 

I love her so sincerely; 
My master comes like any Turk, 

And bangs me most severely : 
But let him bang his belly full, 

Pll bear it all for Sally; 
She is the darling of my heart. 

And she lives in our alley. 

Of all the days that's in the week, 

I dearly love but one day. 
And that's the day that comes betwixt 

The Saturday and Monday. 
For then I'm drest in all my best. 

To walk abroad with Sally ; 
She is the darling of my heart. 

And she lives in our alley. 

My master carries me to church. 

And often am I blamed. 
Because I leave him in the lurch. 

As soon as text is named : 
I leave the church in sermon-time. 

And slink away to Sally ; 
She is the darling of my heart. 

And she lives in our alley. 

When Christmas comes about again, 

O ! then I shall have money ; 
I'll hoard it up and box and all, 

I'll give it to my honey ; 
I wou'd it were ten thousand pound, 

rd give it all to Sally; 
She is the darling of my heart. 

And she lives in our alley. 



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174 80N0S OP ENGLAVD AND IBSLAm>. 

My master, and the nei|rhbour8 all. 

Make game of me and Sally ; 
And (but for her) I'd better be 

A slave and row a gdley ; 
But when my seven lon|r years arc out, 

O I then rU marry Sally, 
O ! then we'll wed, and then we'll bed, 

But not in our alley. 



[Carey in the third Editi«>n of his Poems published in 1729, before 
** the Ballad of Sallf in ow AUey** has placed this note :— 
The AilBUinent. 

'* A Talgrar error having long prevailed among maajr persons, who 
imagine Sally Salisbury the subject of this ballad, the Author begs 
leave to undeceive and assure them it has not the least allusion to 
her, he being a stranger to her very name at <be time this Song was 
composed. For as innocence and virtue were ever the boundaries to 
his Muse, so in this little poem he had no other view than to set forth 
the beauty of a chaste and disinterested passion, even in the lowest 
class of human life. The real occasion was this : a Shoemaker's 
'Prentice making holiday with his Sweetheart, treated her with a 
sight of Bedlam, the puppet-shews, the flying.chairs, and all the ele- 
gancies of Moor-fields : from whence proceeding to the Farthing- 
pye-house, he gave her a collation of buns, cheese-cakes, gammon 
of bacon, stulTd beef, and bottled ale ; through aU which scenes the 
Author dodg'd them (charm'd with the simplicity of their courtship), 
Arom whence he drew this little sketch of nature } but being then 
young and obscure, he was very much ridiculed by some of his 
acquaintance for this performance; which nevertheless made its 
way into the polite world, and amply recompensed him by the 
applause of the divine Addison, who was pleased (more than once) 
to mention it with approbation," p. 127. 

This highly interesting note I have never seen added to any copy 
of the Song but that contained among the Author's works.] 



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SONGS OF ENGLAND AND IRELAND. 175 



LOVE AND JEALOUSY. 
HARRY CAREY. 

Tho' cruel you seem to my pain. 

And hate me because I am true ; 
Yet, Phillis, you love a false swain. 

Who has other nymphs in his view. 
Enjoyment's a trifle to him. 

To me what a heaven ^twould be ! 
To him but a woman you seem. 

But ah ! you're an angel to me : 

Those lips which he touches in haste, 

To them I for ever could grow. 
Still clinging around that dear waist, 

Which he spans as beside him you go ; 
That arm, like a lily so white. 

Which over his shoulders you lay, 
My bosom could warm it all night. 

My lips they could press it all day. 

Were I like a monarch to reign. 

Were graces my subjects to be, 
I'd leave them, and fly to the plain^ 

To dwell in a cottage with thee. 
But if I must feel your disdain. 

If tears cannot cruelty drown, 
O ! let me not live in this pain. 

But give me my death in a frown. 



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176 SONGS OF ENGLAND AND IRELAND. 

LOVE ECSTATIC. 

HARRY CAREY. 

To be f^zmg on those charms. 
To be folded in those arms. 
To unite my lips to those. 
Whence eternal sweetness flows. 
To be lov'd by one so fair. 
Is to be blest beyond compare ! 

On that bosom to recline. 
While that hand is lock'd in mine. 
In those eyes myself to view, * 
Grazing still, and still on you. 
To be lov'd by one so fair. 
Is to be blest beyond compare. 



[" Honest Harry introduced this Song with a slight alteration, as 
a dnet, in his little interlude of ' Nancy, or the Parting Lovers.* It 
appears however from Ids poems to have been written long before." 

RiTSOX.] 



LOVE'S A RIDDLE. 
HARRY CAREY. 

The flame of love assuages. 
When once it is revetd'd ; 

But fiercer still it rages. 
The more it is concealM. 

Consenting makes it colder ^ 
When met it will retreat : 

Repulses make it bolder. 
And dangers make it sweet. 



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50N08 OF ENGLAND AND IRELAND. 177 



HARRY CAREY'S GENERAL REPLY TO THE UBELUNG 
GENTRY WHO ARE ANGRY AT HIS WELFARE. 

With an honest old friend, and a merry old Song, 
And a flask of old Port let me sit the night long ; 
And laugh at the malice of those who repine. 
That they must swig porter, while I can drink wine. 

I envy no mortal tho' ever so great. 
Nor scorn I a wretch for his lowly estate : 
But what I abhor, and esteem as a curse. 
Is poorness of spirit, not poorness of purse. 

Then dare to be generous, dauntless and gay. 
Let's merrily pass Life's remainder away : 
Upheld by our friends, we our foes may despise. 
For the more we are envy'd the higher we rise. 



GOOD REASON FOR LOVING. 

HARRY CAREY. 

Saw you the nymph whom I adore ? 

Saw you the goddess of my heart ? 
And can you bid me love no more. 

Or can you think I feel no smart ? 

So many charms around her shine. 
Who can the sweet temptation fly ? 

Spite of her scorn she's so divine. 
That I must love her though I die« 

I. N 



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17B 80NGS OF ENGLAND AND IRELAND. 



A DITHYRAMBICK FOR TWO VOICES. 

HARRY CAREY. 

Cupid no more shall give me grief. 
Or anxious cares oppress my soul ; 

While generous Bacchus brings relief. 
And drowns 'em in a flowing bowl. 

Celia, thy scorn I now despise. 
Thy boasted empire I disown. 

This takes the brightness from thine eyes- 
And makes it sparkle in my own. 



THE MAID'S PETITION. 

HARRY CAREY. 

Cruel Creature ! can you leave me. 
Can you then ungrateful prove ? 

Did you court me to deceive me, 
And to slight my constant love. 

False ungrateful thus to woo me. 
Thus to make my heart a prize, 

First to ruin and undo me. 
Then to scorn and tyrannize. 

Shall I send to Heav'n my pray'r. 
Shall I all my wrongs relate. 

Shall I curse the dear betrayer ? 
No alas ! it is too late. 



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SOKGS OF ENGLAND AND IRELAND, 179 

Cupid ! pity my condition. 

Pierce this unrelenting swain ! 
Hear a tender Maid's petition. 

And restore my love again. 



THE GROVES, THE PLAINS. 
HARRT CAREY. 

The groves, the plains. 

The nymphs, the swains, 
The silver stream, the cooling shade. 

All, all declare 

How false you are. 
How many hearts you have betray'd. 

Ungrateful go. 

Too well I know. 
Your fatal, false deluding art ; 

To every she. 

As well as me. 
You make an offering of your heart. 



LOVE WITHOUT ALLAY. 
HARRY CAREY. 

Gazing on my idol treasure. 
All my soul is lost in joy; 

She affords eternal pleasure. 
And can never, never cloy. 

Ev'ry motion, ev'ry feature. 
Shines with some peculiar grace. 

Never sure was human creature. 
Blest with such an angel's face. 



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] so SONGS OF ENGLAND AND IRELAND. 

LOVE FOR LOVE'S SAKE. 
HARRY CAREY. 

I'll range around the shady bowers. 
And gather all the sweetest flowers ; 
I'll strip the garden and the grove. 
To make a garland for my love. 

When, in the sultry heat of day, 

My thirsty nymph does panting lay ; 

I'll hasten to the river's brink. 

And drain the floods but she shall drink. 

At night to rest her weary head, 

I'll make my love a grassy bed ; 

And with green boughs, I'll form a shade. 

That nothing may her rest invade. 

And while dissolv'd in sleep she lies. 
Myself shall never close these eyes ; 
But gazing still with fond delight, 
I'll watch my charmer all the night. 

And then as soon as cheerful day. 
Dispels the darksome shades away ; 
Forth to the forest I'll repair. 
To seek provision for my fair. 

Thus will I spend the day and night-— 
Still mixing labour with delight ; 
Regarding nothing I endure, 
So I can ease for her procure. 



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SONGS OF ENGLAND AND IRELAND. 181 

But if the nymph whom thus I love. 
To her fond swain should faithless prove, 
ril seek some dismal distant shore. 
And never think of woman more. 



FROM THE COURT TO THE COTTAGE. 
HARRY CAREY. 

From the court to the cottage convey me away. 
For Fm weary of grandeur, and what they call gay : 

When pride without measure. 

And pomp without pleasure. 
Make life in a circle of hurry decay. 

Far remote and retir'd from the noise of the town, 
ril exchange my brocade for a plain russet gown ; 

My friends shall be few. 

But well chosen and true. 
And sweet recreation our evening shall crown. 

With a rural repast, (a rich banquet for me) 
On a mossy green tiirf, near some shady old tree. 

The river's clear brink. 

Shall afford me my drink. 
And temperance my friendly physician shall be. 

Ever calm and serene, with contentment still blest. 
Not too giddy with joy, or with sorrow deprest, 

I'll neither invoke. 

Or repine at Death's stroke. 
But retire from the world as I would to my rest. 



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189 SONGS OF ENGLAND AND IRELAND. 



A BACCHANALIAN RANT. 
HARRY CARET. 

Bacchus must now his power resign^ 

I am the only god of wine ; 

It is not fit the wretch should be 

In competition set with me. 

Who can drink ten times more than he. 

Make a new world, ye powers divine ! 
Stock'd with nothing else but wine ! 
Let wine its only product be. 
Let wine be earth, and air, and sea. 
And let that wine be all for me. 

Let other mortals vainly wear 
A tedious life in anxious care. 
Let the ambitious toil and think, 
Let states and empires swim or sink — 
My whole ambition is to drink. 



HOW HARDLY I CONCEALED MY TEARS ? 
ANNE, MARCHIONESS OF WHARTON. 

How hardly I conceal'd my tears ? 

How oft did I complain ? 
When, many tedious days, my fears 

Told me I lov'd in vain. 



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80NOS OF ENGLAND AND IRELAND. 183 

But now my joys as \vild are grown, 

And hard to be concealed ; 
Sorrow may make a silent moan. 

But joy will be reveaPd. 

I tell it to the bleating flocks. 

To every stream and tree. 
And bless the hollow murmuring rocks 

For echoing back to me. 

Thus you may see with how much joy. 

We want, we wish, believe ; 
'Tis hard such passion to destroy. 

But easy to deceive. 



RIVALS, A LOVER'S PLAGUE. 

WILLIAM WALSH. 

Of all the torments, all the cares. 

With which our lives are curst ; 
Of all the plagues a lover bears. 

Sure rivals are the worst ! 
By partners in each other kind. 

Afflictions easier grow ; 
In love alone we hate to And, 

Companionb of our woe. 

Sylvia, for all the pangs you see 
Are laboring in my breast ; 

I beg not you would favour me. 
Would you but d^ht the rei^t ! 



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184 80NOS OF ENGLAND AND IRELAND. 

How ^eat soe'er your rigours are, 
T/Vitli them alone I'll cope ; 

I can endure my own despair. 
But not anoth^s hope. 



1 



(This song is by the Walsh so often mentioned in the correqkon- 
dence of Pope.] 



AMYNTA'S LIPS. 

As near a fountain's cooling side. 

The fair Amynta lay. 
Her looks increas'd the summer's pride- 

Her eyes the face of day. 

The roses round blush'd deeper red — 

To see themselves outdone. 
Each lily droop'd its little head— - 

And moum'd its beauty gone. 

Unto this fountain's soft retreat — 

A bee enamour'd flew— ^ 
To steal Amynta's every sweet 

And rifle balmy dew. 

Drawn by the fragrance of her breath. 

Her wanton lips he wooed, 
C^ercome with bliss cold icy death. 

The happy rogue pursued. 



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SONGS OF ENGLAND AND IBELAND. 185 

Ah ! little bee how blest thy fate — 

. Thy lot was joy divine. 
E'en Kings would quit their royal state — 
To meet a death like thine. 



[Our old collections of sonsrs contain many yenlons of the above, 
in some tlie lady is called Selinda. The Editor thinks the presenlf 
copy of the song is most preferable.] 



WE ALL TO BEAUTY BOW. 

We all to conquering beauty bow. 

Its pleasing power admire ; 
But I ne'er knew a face till now 

That could like yours inspire : 
Now I may say I met with one 

Amazes all mankind ; 
And, like men gazing on the sun. 

With too much light am blind. 

Soft, as the tender moving sighs. 

When longing lovers meet. 
Like the divining prophets, wise ; 

Like new-blown roses, sweet ; 
Modest, yet gay ; reserv'd, yet free ; 

Each happy night a bride } 
A mien like awful majesty. 

And yet no spark of pride. 

The patriarch to win a wife. 
Chaste, beautiful, and young, 

Serv'd fourteen years a pidnful life. 
And never thought it long : 



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186 SONGS OF ENGLAND AND IRELAND. 

Ah I wete you to reward such care. 
And life so long would stay. 

Not fourteen, but four hundred years. 
Would seem but as one day. 



AN EXCUSE FOR DRINKING. 

Upbraid me not, capricious fsur. 

With drinking to excess j 
I should not want to drown despair. 

Were your indifference less. 

Love me, my dear, and you shall find. 

When this excuse is gone. 
That all my bliss, when Chloe's kind. 

Is fixed on her alone. 

The god of wine the victory 
To beauty yields with joy ; 

For Bacchus only drinks like me. 
When Ariadne's coy. 



TO THE BROOK. 



To the brook and the willow that heard him complain. 
Poor Colin went weeping and told them his pain ; 
Sweet stream, he cried, sadly I'll teach thee to flow. 
And thy waters shall mournfully run with my woe. 



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SONGS OF ENGLAND AND IRELAND. 187 

In sorrow and anguish my Mary now lies. 
She counts the sad moments of Time as it flies ; 
To the nymph, my heart's love, ye soft slumbers repair. 
Spread your downy wings o'er her, and make her your 
care. 

Let me be left restless, my eyes never clos^. 
So the sleep that I lose, gives my fair one repose. 
Dear stream I if you chance by her pillow to creep. 
Perhaps your soft murmurs may lull her asleep. 

Oh if I am doom'd to be wretched indeed — 
And the loss of my Mary the fates have decreed : — 
Believe me thou fair one — Oh Mary believe. 
That I sigh for thy loss — and I live but to grieve. 

Soft glide gentle brook — gentle streamlet soft glide — 
While I lay me to dje — on your flower painted side — 
But swiftly flow on — and to Mary the fair — 
The love of poor Colin that's dying, O bear ! 



[The copy of this song is given from two or three yersions con- 
tained in different collections. In many of the songs in this volmne 
printed vrithont any name^ there is much prettiness and mnch ele- 
gance, but something of affectation nms through the whole of them 
and mnch inequality. From all parts, from all odd volumes, and 
from diflierent manuscripts these songs found their way into our 
Anthologies, it Is not improbable but that several of them are the 
compositions of the various collectors and compilers. 

One would almost imagine that Bums had seen the above song— 
when he wrote his beautifullyric in honour of Mrs. General Stewart :— 
" Flow gently sweet Afton among thy green braes."] 



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188 SONGS OF BNOLAMD AITD lEBLAHD. 



BELINDA. 



Ah ! bright Belinda, hither fly. 

And such a light discover. 
As may the absent son supply. 

And chear the drooping lover. 

Arise, my day, with speed arise. 

And all my sorrows banish : 
Before the sun of thy bright eyes. 

All gloomy terrors vanish. 

No longer let me sigh in vain. 
And curse the hoarded treasure : 

Why should you love to give us pain. 
When you were made for pleasure ? 

The petty powers of hell destroy ; 

To save the pride of heaven : 
To you the first, if you prove coy; 

If kind, the last is given. 

The choice then sure's not hard to make. 

Betwixt a good and evil : 
Which title had you rather take. 

My goddess, or, my devil ? 



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SONGS OF ENGLAND AND IRELAND. 189 



'TIS NOT THE BRIGHTNESS OF THOSE EYES. 

'Tia not the liquid brightness of those eyes. 

That swim with pleasure and delight ; " 

Nor those fail* heavenly arches which arise 

O'er each of them to shade their light ; 

Tis not that hair which plays with every wind. 

And loves to wanton round thy face ; 

Now straying o'er thy forehead, now behind 

Retiring with insidious grace. 

Tis not that lovely range of teeth, as white 
As new shorn sheep, equal and fair ; 
Nor even that gentle smile the heart's delight. 
With which no smile could e'er compare ; 
Tis not that chin so round, that neck so fine. 
Those breasts that swell to meet my love ; 
That easy sloping waist, that form divine. 
Nor ought below, nor ought above. 

'Tis not the living colours over each. 

By nature's finest pencil wrought. 

To shame the fresh blown rose, and blooming peach. 

And mock the happiest painter's thought : 

But 'tis that gentle mind, that ardent love. 

So kindly answering my desire ; 

That grace with which you look, and speak, and 

move. 
That thus have set my soul on fire. 



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190 SONGS OF ENGLAND AND IRELAND. 



FAIR AND SOFT. 

Fair, and soft, and gay, and young. 

All charm ! she play'd, she danc'd, she sung. 

There was no way to 'scape the dart. 

No care could guard the lover's heart. 

Ah ! why cry'd I, and dropt a tear, 

(Adoring, yet despairing e'er 

To have her to myself alone) 

Was so much sweetness made for one ? 

But growing bolder, in her ear 
I in soft numbers told my care : 
She heard and rais'd me from her feet. 
And seem'd to glow with equal heat. 
Like heaven's, too mighty to express. 
My joys could but be known by guess ! 
Ah ! fool, said I, what have I done. 
To wish her made for more than one ? 

But long I had not been in view. 
Before her eyes their beams withdrew j 
E'er I had reckon'd half her charms 
She sunk into another's arms. 
But she that once could faithless be. 
Will favour him no more than me : 
He too will find himself undone. 
And that she was not made for one. 



[From the Hive, a collection of Songs, 4 toI. 8vo. 1738.] 



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80NOS OF ENGLAND AND IRELAND. 191 



RAIL NO MORE. 

Rail no more ye learned asses, 

'Gainst the joys the bowl supplies; 
Sound its depth and fill your glasses. 

Wisdom at the bottom lies. 
Fill them hiorher still and higher. 

Shall our draughts perplex the brain ; 
Sipping quenches all our fire. 

Bumpers light it up again. 

Draw the scene for wit and pleasure — 

Enter jollity and joy ; 
We for thinking have no leisure. 

Manly mirth is our employ : 
Since in life there's nothing certain. 

We'll the present hour engage ; 
And when death shall drop the curtain. 

With applause we'll quit the stage. 



A TOAST. 

Let the waiter bring clean glasses, 
\Wth a fresh supply of wine ; 

For I see |i)y all your faces. 
In my wishes you will join. 

It is not the charms of beauty 
Which I purpose to proclaim, 

We a while will leave that duty. 
For a more prevailing theme. 



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192 SONGS OF ENGLAND AND IRELAND. 

To the health Vm now proposing. 
Let's have one full glass at least ; 

No one here can think't imposing — 
Tis the founder of the feast. 



CARE, THOU CANKER. 
DR. GRANT. 

Care, thou canker of our joys. 
Now thy tyrant reign is o'er. 

Fill the mystic bowl, my boys. 
Join the bacchanalian roar. 

Seize the villain, plunge him in. 
See the hated miscreant dies : — 

Mirth and all thy train come in. 
Banish sorrow, tears and sighs. 

O'er our merry nudnight bowls, 
O, how happy shall we be ; 

Day was made for vulgar souls. 
Night my boys for you and me. 



A CHOIR OF BRIGHT BEAUTIES. 

A choir of bright beauties 

In spring did appear. 
To chuse a May-lady 

To govern the year; 



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( 



SONGS OF ENGLAND AND IBBLAND. 193 

All the nymphs were in white. 

And the shepherds in green» 
The garland was given. 

And Phillis was queen. 
But Riillis refused it, ^ 

And sighing did say, 
I'll not wear a garland. 

While Pan is away. 

While Pan and fur Syrinx 

Are fled from the shore, * 

The graces are banish'd, ^ 

And love is no more : 
The soft god of pleasure 

That warm'd our desires. 
Has broken his bow. 

And extinguish'd his fires 
And vows that himself 

And his mother will mourn, 
till Pan and fair S^pinx 

In triumph return. 

Forbear your addresses. 

And court us no more ; 
For we will perform 

What the deity swore : 
But if you dare think 

Of deserving our charms. 
Away with your sheep-hooks. 

And take to your arms : 
Then laurels and myrtles 

Your brows shall adorn. 
When Pan and fair Syrinx 

In triumph return, 
voi^. I. o 



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194 80NG8 OF ENGLAND AND IRELAND. 

OH I FORBEAR TO BID ME SLIGHT HER. 

AARON HILL. 

Bom 1685— iHed 1750. 

Oh 1 forbear to bid me slight ber. 
Soul and senses take her part ; 

Could my death itself delight her. 
Life should leap to leave my heart. 

Strong, though soft, a lover's chain, 

Charm'd with woe, and pleased with pain. 

Though the tender flame were dying. 

Love would light it at her eyes ; 
Or, her tuiieful voice applying, 
• Through my ear my soul surprise. 
Deaf, I see the fate I shun ; 
Blind, I hear and am undone. 



L O T H A R I A. 

AARON HILL. 



Vainly now ye strive to charm me. 
All ye sweets of blooming May; 

How can empty sunshine warm me. 
While Lotharia keeps away ? 

Go, ye warbling birds, go leave me ; 

Shade, ye clouds, the smiling sky ; 
Sweeter notes her voice can give me. 

Softer sunshine fills her eye. - 



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SONGS OP ENGLAND AND IRELAND. 195 

AT SETTING DAY. 
AARON HILL. 

Since sounding drums, and rising war. 

Invite my love to danger, 
m ask of every smiling star. 

To sMeld my roving ranger. 

While o'er the field, unfearing wounds. 

You press the foe, retreating, 
I'll trace the desar remember'd bounds. 

Of our more gentle meeting. 

ril pass whole days in yon sweet grove. 
Where first thy tongue deceived me. 

When, listening dumb, I blush'd my love. 
And no fear'd absence griev'd me. 

On every bank thy side hath press' d, 
I'll sleep and dream I'm near thee ; 

And each sweet bird that strains his breast. 
Shall wake my hopes to hear ye. 

To all our haunts I will repair. 

And, cold, on yon bleak mountain. 
Trace all thy once trod footsteps there. 

And weep o'er each sad fountain. 

There will I teach the trees to wear 

Thy name, in soft impression ; 
And borrow sighs from roving air. 

To swell my soul's confession. 



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196 SONGS OF ENGLAND AND IRELAND. 

THE CONQUEST. 
WILLIAM THOMPSON. 

When Phoebus heard lanthe sing. 
And sweetly bid the groves rejoice. 

Jealous, he smote the trembling string. 
Despairing quite to match her voice. 

Smiling, her harpsichord she strung : 
As soon as she began to play. 

Away his harp poor Phoebus flung ; 
It was no time for him to stay. 

Yet hold J before your godship go. 
The fair shall gain another prize ; 

Your voice and lyre's outdone you know ; 
No less thy sunshine by her eyes. 



[Thompsoo is the author of " Sickness,*' a poem in five books, and 
a very beautifol " Hymn to May." He is now little read.] 



DEAR COLIN PREVENT. 
LADY MARY WORTLEY MONTAGU. 

Bom about 1690— Died 1762. 

Dear Colin prevent my warm blushes. 
Since how can I speak without pain i 

My eyes have oft told you my wishes, 
O ! can't you their meaning explain ? 



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SONGS OF ENGLAND AND IRELAND. 197 

My passion would lose by expression. 
And you too might cruelly blame ; 

Then don't you expect a confession. 
Of what is too tender to name. 

Since yours is the province of speaking. 
Why should you expect it from me ; 

Our wishes should be in our keeping, 
'Till you tell us what they should be. 

Then quickly why don't you discover ? 

Did your heart feel such tortures as mine, 
I need not tell over and over. 

What I in my bosom confine. 

C" Lady M. W. Montagu, in a letter to her daughter, the Countess 
of Bute, states that the above poem was handed about as the sup- 
posed address of Lady Hertford to Lord William Hamilton, and that 
she herself wrote these verses attributed to Sir WUliam Yonge.** Park. 
Colin's answer has been printed as Sir William Yonge^s.] 



COLIN'S ANSWER. 
LADY MARY WORTLEY MONTAGU. 

Good Madam when ladies are willing, 
A man must needs look like a fool ; 

For me I would not give a shilling 
For one that can love without rule. 

At least you should wait for our offers. 
Nor snatch like old maids in despair ; 

If you've lived to these years without proffers 
Your sighs are now lost in the air. 



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I 



1 98 80NOS OF ENGLAND AND IREI.AND. 

You should leave us to guess at your blushing-. 
And not speak the matter too plain ; 

'Tis ours to be forward and pushing; 
'Tis yours to aflPect a disdain. 

That you^ in a terrible taking 
From all your fond oglings I see ! 

But the fruit that will fall without shaking 
Indeed is too mellow for me. 



AS O'ER ASTERIA'S FIELDS I ROVE. 

WILLIAM SOMSRYILLE. 
Bom 1699— Died 1742. 

As o'er Asteria's fields I rove. 
The blissful seat of peace and love. 
Ten thousand beauties round me rise. 
And mingle pleasure with surprise. 
By nature blessed in every part, 
Adorn'd with every grace of art. 
This paradise of blooming joys 
Each raptur'd sense at once employs. 

But when I view the radiant queen 
Who form'd this fair enchanting scene. 
Pardon, ye grots ! ye crystal floods ! 
Ye breathing flowers ! ye shady woods ! 
Your coolness now no more invites ,• 
No more your murmuring stream delights ; 
Your sweets decay, your verdure's flown j 
My soul's intent on her alone. 



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SONGS OF BNOLAUD AND IBBLAND. 199 



PARAPHRASE UPON A FRENCH SONG. 

Venge mol d'une ingrato sudtreste, 
Dien da 'Hn I J*in^ore ton yyreste. 

WILLIAM SOMERYILLE. 

Kind relief in all my pain. 
Jolly Bacchus ! hear my prayer. 
Vengeance pn th' ungrateful fair ! 
In thy smiling cordial bowl 
DroVn the sorrows of my soul : 
All thy deity employ. 
Gild each gloomy thought with joy. 
Jolly Bacchus ! save, O swe. 
From the deep-devouring grave, 
A poor despairing dying swain. 

Haste away. 

Haste away. 
Lash thy tigers, do not stay ; 
I'm undone if thou delay : 
If I view those eyes once more. 
Still shall love and still adore. 
And be more wretched than before. 
See the glory round her face ! 

See her move ! 

With what a grace ! 

Ye gods above I 
Is she not one of your immortal race ? 
Fly ye winged Cupids ! fly ; 
Dart like lightning through the sky : 



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200 SONGS OP ENGLAND AND IRELAND. 

Would ye in marble temples dwells 
The dear one to my arms compel ; 
Bring her in bands of mjrrtle tied ; 
Bid her forget^ and bid her hide 
All her scorn and all her pride. 
Would ye that your slave repay 
A smoking hecatomb each day ? 

O restore 
The beauteous goddess I adore! 
O restore with sJl her charms^ 
The fedthless vagrant to my arms ! 



THE PARTING KISS. 

ROBERT DODSLEY. 

Bora iTOS^Died 1764. 

One kind kiss before we part^ 

Drop a tear and bid adieu : 
Though we sever, my fond heart 

Till we meet shall pant for you. 

Yet, yet, weep not so my love. 

Let me kiss that falling tear. 
Though my body must remove. 

All my soul will still be here. 

All my soul and all my heart. 
And every wish shall pant for you ; 

One kind kiss then ere we part. 
Drop a tear and bid adieu ? 

[Dodsley was a well-known bookseller in Pall Mall, to which rank, 
encouraged by Pope, he rose from a gentleman's servant.] 



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SONGS OP ENGLAND AND IRELAND. ^01 



FANNY FAIR. 

To Fanny fair could I impart 

The cause of all my woe I 
That beauty which has won my heart. 

She scarcely seems to know : 
Unskill'd in art of womankind. 

Without design she' charms ; 
How can those sparkling eyes be blind. 

Which every bosom warms ? 

She knows her power is all deceit. 

The conscious blushes shows. 
Those blushes to the eye more sweet 

Than th' op'ning budding rose : 
Yet the delicious fragrant rose. 

That charms the sense so much. 
Upon a thorny brier grows. 

And wounds with ev'ry touch. 

At first when I beheld the fair. 

With natures I wap blest ; 
But as I would approach more near. 

At once I lost my rest ; 
Th' inchanting sight, the sweet surprise. 

Prepare me for my doom j 
One cruel look from those bright eyes 

Will lay me in my tomb. 

[From the Tea Table Miscellany. Burns in his first letter to Georgre 
Thomson, calls it < insipid stolT and a disgrace to a collection of 
•ongs.' The Editor had great misgivings after sacdi an opinion from 
such a man as Boms whether he should insert it— bat as the poet 
says in his Dream : 

There's mony waor been o' the race, 
so he thought ivoper here to admit it.] 



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202 SONGS OP ENGLAND AND IRELAND. 



DELIA. 



GEORGE LORD LYTTELTON. 
I l709^Died 1773. 



When Delia on the plain appears. 
Awed by a thousand tender fears, 
I would approach, hut dare not move : 
Tell me, my heart, if this be love? 

Whene'er she speaks, my ravish'd ear 
No other voice but hers can hear. 
No other wit but hers approve: 
Tell me my heart if this be love ? 

If she some other youth commend. 
Though I was once his fondest friend. 
His instant enemy I prove : 
Tell me, my heart, iif this be love ? 

When she is absent, I no more 
Delight in all that pleas'd before. 
The clearest spring*, or shadiest grove : 
Tell me, my heart, if this be love? 

When, fond of power, of beauty vain. 
Her nets she spread for every swain ; 
I strove to hate, but vainly strove t 
Tell me, my heart, if this be love ? 



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80N08 ar BNOLAND AND IBBLAND. 203 

M Y R A. 
GEORGE LORD LYTTELTON. 

Say, Myra, why is gentle love 

A stranger to that mind. 
Which pity and esteem can move ; 

Which can be just and kind ? 

Is it, because you fear to share 

The ills that Love molest ; 
The jealous doubt, the tender care. 

That rack the amorous breast ? 

Alas ! by some degree of woe 

We every bliss must gain : 
The heart can ne'er a transport know. 

That never feels a pain. 



THE HEAVY HOURS ARE ALMOST PASS'D. 
GEORGE LORD LYTTELTON. 

The heavy hours are almost pass'd 

That part my love and me : 
My longing eyes may hope at last 

Their only wish to see. 

But how, my Delia, will you meet 
The man you*ve lost so long ? 

Will love in all your pulses beat. 
And tremble on your tongue ? 



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204 SONGS OF ENGLAND AND IRELAND. 

Will you in every look declare 
Your heart is still the same. 

And heal each idly anxious care. 
Our fears in absence frame. 

Thus, Delia, thus I psdnt the scene. 
When shortly we shall meet ; 

And try what yet remains between 
Of loitering time to cheat. 

But if the dream that soothes my mind 
Shall false and groundless prove ,* 

If I am doom'd at length to find 
You have forgot to love ; 

All I of Venus ask; is this : 

No more to let us join : 
But grant me here the flattering bliss 

To die, and think you mine. 



CELIA ALTOGETHER. 

WILLIAM WHITEHEAD. 
Bom —Died 1785. 

Yes, Pm in love, I feel it now. 
And Celia has undone me ; 

And yet I swear I can't tell how 
The pleasing plague stole on me. 



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BONOS OF BNOLAND AND IRELAND. 205 

Tis not her fece that love creates. 

For there no graces revel ; 
Tis not her shape^ for there the fates. 

Have rather been nnciviL 

'Tis not her tax, for sure in that 
There's nothing more than common. 

And all her sense is only chat. 
Like any other woman. 

Her voice, her touch might give th' alarm, 

'Twas both perhaps, or neither ; 
In short, 'twas that provoking charm 

Of Celia altogether. 



[WiUiam Whitehead succeeded Ccdley Gibber as Poet Laoreat. 
His poems, and his name are now sinking into obscarityO 



STELLA. 

DR. JOHNSON. 

Bom 1701^— Died 1784. 



Not the soft ughs of vernal gales. 
The fragrance of the flowery vales. 
The murmurs of the crystal rill. 
The vocal grove, the verdant hill ; 
Not all their charms, though all unite 
Can touch my bosom with delight. 



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206 80NO8 OF ENOIiAND AKD IRELAlVD. 

Not all the gems on India's shore. 

Not all Peru's unbounded store. 

Not all the power, nor all the fiame. 

That heroes, kings, or poets claim ; 

Nor knowledge which the leam'd approve. 

To form one wish my soul can move. 

Yet Nature's charms allure my eyes. 
And knowledge, wealth, and fame I prize ; 
Fame, wealth, and knowledge I obtain. 
Nor seek I Nature's charms in vain ; 
In lovely Stella all combine. 
And, lovely Stella ! thou art mine. 



FLAVIA. 

WILLIAM SHENSTONE. 

Bom 1714— ©led 1763. 

I told my nymph, I told her true. 
My fields were small, my flocks were few ; 
While faultering accents spoke my fear. 
That Flavia might not prove sincere. 

Of crops destroy'd by vernal cold. 
And vagrant sheep that left my fold : 
Of these she heard, yet bore to hear ; 
And is not Flavia then sincere ? 

How chang'd by fortune's fickle wind. 
The friends I lov'd became unkind. 
She heard, and shed a generous tear ; 
And is not Flavia then sincere ? 



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&ONOS OF ENGLAND AND IRELAND. 207 

How if she deigned my love to bless, 
My Flavia must not hope for dress j 
This too she heard, and smil'd to hear ; 
And Flavia sure must be sincere. 

Go shear your flocks, ye jovial swains. 
Go reap the plenty of your plains ; 
DespoiPd of all which you revere, 
I know my Flavia's love sincere. 



THE LANDSCAPE. 
WILLIAM SHENSTONE. 

How pleas'd within my native bowers 

Ere while I pass'd the day ! 
Was ever scene so deck'd with flowers ? 

Were ever flowers so gay ? 

How sweetly smil'd the hill, the vale. 
And all the landscape round ! 

The river gliding down the dale ! 
The hill with beeches crown'd ! 

But now, when urg'd by tender woes, 
. I speed to meet my dear. 
That hill and stream my zeal oppose. 
And check my fond career. 

No more, since Ds^hne was my theme. 
Their wonted chaj*ms I see : 

That verdant hill and silver stream. 
Divide my love and me. 



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WS 80N08 OP ENGLAND AND IRELAND. 

THE LOVELY DELIA SMILES AGAIN. 
WILLIAM 8HEN8T0NE. 

The lovely Delia smiles a^ifain ! 

That killing frown has left her brow : 
Can she forgive my jealous pain. 

And give me back my angry vow ? 

Love is an April's doubtful day : 
Awhile we see the tempest low*r ; 

Anon the radiant heav'n survey. 
And quite forget the flitting show'r. 

The flowers that hung their languid head. 
Are banish'd by the transient rains ; 

The vines their wonted tendrils spread. 
And double verdure gilds the plains. 

The sprightly birds, that droop'd no less 
Beneath the power of rain and wind, % 

In every raptur'd note, express 
The joy I feel, — ^when thou art kind. 



FAIR FIDELE. 
WILLIAM COLLINS. 
Born 1720— Died 1756. 



To fair Fldele's grassy tomb 

Soft maids and village hinds shall bring 
Each op'ning sweet of earliest bloom. 

And rifle all the breathing spring. 



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SONGS OF ENGLAND AND IRELAND. 209 

No wailing ghost shall dare appear 
To vex with shrieks this quiet grove ; 

But shepherd lads assemble here. 
And melting virgins own their love. 

No wither'd witch shall here be seen ; 

No goblins lead their nightly crew. 
The female fays shall haunt the green. 

And dress thy grave with pearly dew ! 

The redbreast oft, at ev'ning hours 

Shall kindly lend his little aid. 
With hoary moss, and gather'd flow'rs. 

To deck the ground where thou art laid. 

When howling winds and beating rain 

In tempests shake the sylvan cell. 
Or midst the chace on every plain 
- The tender thought on thee shall dwell ; 

Each' lonely scene shall thee restore; 

For thee the tear be duly shed ; 
Belov'd till life can charm no more. 

And mournM till Pity's self be dead. 



[To be song by Gaidenis and Arviraens, in Cymbeline oyer Fidele, 
vhom they imagine dead. One copy of the song commences : 

* To fair Pastora's grassy tomb.'] 



VOr. I. 



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210 SONGS OF ENGLAND AND IRRLAND. 



AHPASIA- 



If ASK AKENSIDB. 
Bom 1731— Died 177^. 

The shape alone let others prize. 

The features of the fair 5 
I look for spirit iu her eyes. 

And meaning in her air. 

A damask cheek, an ivory arm. 

Shall ne'er my Irishes win ; 
Give me an animated form 

That speaks a mind within. 

A face where awful honour shines, 
Where sense and sweetness move. 

And angel innocence refines 
The tenderness of love. 

These are the soul of beauty's frame. 

Without whose vital aid. 
Unfinished all her features seem. 

And all her roses dead. 

But, ah ! where both their charms unite. 

How perfect is the view j 
With every image of delight. 

With graces ever new. 



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SONGS OF ENGLAND AND IRELAND. 211 

Of power to chann the greatest woe. 

The wildest rage control^ 
Diffusing mildness o'er the brow. 

And rapture through the soul. 

Their power but faintly to express 

All language must despair; 
But go, behold Arpasia's face. 

And read it perfect there. 

[This song is attributed to Akenside on the authority of Ritson. 
1 And it printed in Mr. Dyce*8 Edition of Akenside's Poems just pub- 
lished, to which the Editor has added a very able and interesting 
account of the poet's life.] 



O NANCY WILT THOU GO WITH ME. 
THOMAS PER 07. 

Bom 1728— Died 1811. 

O Nancy, wilt thou go with me. 

Nor sigh to leave the flaunting town ? 
Can silent glens have charms for thee. 

The lowly cot and russet go^vn ? 
No longer drest in silken sheen. 

No longer deck'd with jewels rare. 
Say, canst thou quit each courtly scene. 

Where thou wert fairest of the fair ? 

O Nancy ! when thou'rt far away. 
Wilt thou not cast a wish behind ? 

Say, canst thou face the parching ray. 
Nor shrink before the wintry wind i 



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21^ SONGS OF ENGLAND AND IRELAND. 

O can that soft and gentle mien 
Extremes of hardship learn to bear. 

Nor sad regret each courtly scene. 
Where thou wert fairest of the fair ? 

O Nancy ! canst thou love so true. 

Through perils keen with me to go. 
Or when thy swain mishap shall rue. 

To share with him the pang of woe ? 
Say, should disease or pain befal. 

Wilt thou assume the nurse's care. 
Nor wistful those gay scenes recal. 

Where thou wert fairest of the fair ? 

And when at last thy love shall die. 

Wilt thou receive his parting breath ? 
Wilt thou repress each struggling sigh. 

And cheer with smiles the bed of death ? 
And wilt thou o'er his breathless clay 

Strew flowers, and drop the tender tear. 
Nor then regret those scenes so gay 

Where thou wert fairest of the fair? 



[This very lovely song is the composition of Bishop Percy the well- 
known Editor of the Reliques of Ancient English Poetry, a man who 
has done more for English Literature than any other half dozen anti- 
quaries, and one who had the finest taste and the truest feeling for 
poetry. This, writes Bums, is " perhaps the most beautiful ballad in 
the English language.**] 



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SONGS OF ENGLAND AND IRELAND. 213 



CEUA, LET NOT PRIDE UNDO YOU. 

Oelia, let not pride undo you. 

Love and life fly swiftly on ; 
Let not Damon still pursue you. 

Still in vain, till love is gone : 
See how fair the blooming rose is, 

See by all how justly priz'd ; 
But when it its beauty loses. 

See the withered thing despis'd. 

When those charms that youth have lent you. 

Like the roses are decay'd, 
Celia, you'll too late repent you. 

And be forc'd to die a maid ! 
Die a maid ! die a msdd ! die a maid ! 

Celia, you'^ll too late repent you. 
And be forc'd to die a maid ! ' 



WHEN LOVELY WOMAN STOOPS TO FOLLY. 

OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 

Born 1728— Died 1774. 

When lovely woman stoops to folly. 
And finds too late that men betray. 

What charm can sooth her melancholy? 
What art can wash her guilt away ? 



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^14 SONGS OF ENGLAND AND IRELAND. 

The only art her gnUt to cover. 
To hide her shame from every eye. 

To give repentance to her lover. 
And wring his bosom, is to die. 



FROM THE ORATORIO OF THE CAPTIVITY. 
OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 

The wretch condemn'd with life to part. 

Still, still on hope relies ; 
And every pang that rends the heart 

Bids expectation rise. 

Hope, like the glimmering taper's light. 

Adorns and cheers the way : 
And still, as darker grows the night. 

Emits a brighter ray. 



MAY EVE, 

or 

KATE OF ABERDEEN. 

JOHN CUNNINGHAM. 
Bon 1730— Died 1778. 

The silver moon's enamour'd beam> 
Steals softly thro' the night. 

To wanton with the winding stream. 
And kiss reflected light. 



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SONOS OP ENGLAND AND IRELAND. 215 

To beds of state go balmy sleep ! 

(lis where you've seldom been^ 
May's vigil while the shepherds keep 

With Kate of Aberdeen. 

Upon the green the virgins wait. 

In rosy chaplets gay. 
Tin mom unbar her golden gate. 

And give the promis'd May. 
Methinks I hear the maids declare 

The promis'd May, when seen. 
Not half so fragrant, half so fair. 

As Kate of Aberdeen ! 

Strike up the tabor's boldest notes. 

We'll rouse the nodding grove ; 
The nested birds shall raise their throats. 

And hail the maid I love : 
And see— the matin lark mistakes. 

He quits the tufted green ; 
Fond bird ! 'tis not the morning breaks, 

Tis Kate of Aberdeen ! 

Now lightsome o'er the level mead. 

Where midnight fairies rove. 
Like them, the jocund dance we'll lead. 

Or tune the reed to love : 
For see the rosy May draws nigh. 

She claims a virgin queen ; 
And hark i the happy shepherds cry, 

" 'Tis Kate of Aberdeen ! " 



[The life of Jobn Canningham, the author of this beautiful song, 
was one of disappointment and niacry.] 



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^216 $011^08 OF ENGLAND AND IRELAND. 



DELIA. 



JOHN CUNNINGHAM. 

The gentle swan with graceful pride 

Her glossy plumage laves. 
And sailing down the silver tide. 

Divides the whispering waves : 
The silver tide, that wandering flows. 

Sweet to the bird must be ! 
But not so sweet — blithe Cupid knows. 

As Delia is to me. 

A parent bird, in plaintive mood, 

On yonder fruit-tree sung. 
And still the pendent nest she view'd. 

That held her callow young : 
Dear to the mother's fluttering heart 

The genial brood must be ; 
But not so dear (the thousandth part !) 

As Delia is to me. 

The roses that my brow surround 

Were natives of the dale ; 
Scarce pluck'd, and in a garland bound. 

Before their sweets grew pale ! 
My vital bloom would thus be froze. 

If luckless torn from thee; 
For what the root is to the rose. 

My Delia is to me. 



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SONGS OF ENGLAND AND IRELAND. 217 

Two doves I found, like new-fall'n snow. 

So white the beauteous pair I 
The birds to Delia PU bestow. 

They're like her bosom fair ! 
When, in their chaste connubial love. 

My secret wish she'll see 5 
Such mutual bliss as turtles prove. 

May Delia share with me. 



DAPHNE. 



JOHN CUNNINGHAM. 



No longer. Daphne, I admire 

The graces in thine eyes ; 
Continued coyness kills desire. 

And famish'd passion dies. 
Three tedious years I've sigh'd in vain, 

Nor could my vows prevail 5 
With all the rigours of disdain 

You scorn'd my amorous tale. 

When Celia cry'd, ' How senseless she. 

That has such vows refus'd 5 
Had Damon giv'n his heart to me. 

It had been kinder us'd. 
The man's a fool that pines and dies. 

Because a woman's coy 5 
The gentle bliss that one denies, 

A thousand will enjt>y.' 



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318 S0N08 OF ENGLAND AND IRELAND. 

Such charming words, so void of art. 

Surprising rapture gave ; 
And though the maid subdu'd my heart. 

It ceas'd to be a slave : 
A wretch condemn'd, shall Daphne prove ; 

While blest without restrednt. 
In the sweet calendar of love 

My Celia stands-— a saint. 



A THOUGHT. 



Oh let me grow unto those lips. 
To them I could for ever cling — 

let me revel on those banks — 
And rob the incense of their spring. 

Oh let not those fair sculptured hands. 
Press so to end this dream of bliss, 

1 cannot leave soft pleasure's brink — 

And ne'er can take a parting kiss. 

The bee that sucks the mossy rose, 
May soon extract its every sweet — 

But I may live a life out here— 
And stUl increasing joys may greet. 

O then my love think not to end 

This link of happy pure delight. 
But let me cling unto thos^lips. 

And woo where bees themselves would light. 



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SONGS OF BNOLAND AND IRBLANO. 219 

THE LASS OF COCKERTON. 
Tone, ** Low down in fhe broom." 

'Twas on a suminer*8 evening. 

As I a roving went, 
I met a maiden fresh and fair. 

That was a milking sent. 
Whose lovely look such sweetness spoke. 

Divinely fair she shone ; 
Wth modest face, — ^her dwelling place 

I found was Gockerton. 

Wth raptures fir'd, I eager gaz'd. 

On tlds blooming country maid. 
My roving eye in quickest search. 

Each graceful charm survey'd. 
The more I gaz'd, a new wonder rais'd. 

And still I thought upon 
Those lovely charms, that so alarms « 

In the lass of Cockerton. 

Now would the gods but deign to hear 

An artless lover's prayer. 
This lovely nymph I'd ask. 

And scorn each other care. 
True happiness I'd then possess. 

Her love to share alone. 
No mortals know, what pleasures flow. 

With the lass of Cockerton. 



[From Ritson's .** Bishopric Garland, or Durham Minstrel, being a 
choice collection of excellent Songs, relating to the above county," 
1784. The yariouB publications of Ritson's referring to particular dis- 
tricts were coUected into one volume In 1810, by Mr. Haslewood.] 



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^0 SONGS OF ENGLAND AND IRELAND. 

THE ROSE. 

WILLIAM COWPER. 

Bom 1731— Died 1800. 

The rose had been wash'd, just wash'd in a shower^ 

Which Mary to Anna convey'd. 
The plentiful moisture encumber'd the flower. 

And weigh'd down its beautiful head. 

The cup was all fiU'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 seized it, unfit as it was 
for a nosegay, so dripping and drown'd. 

And swinging it rudely, too rudely, alas ! 
I snapp'd it, it fell to the ground. 

And such, I exclaim'd, is the pitiless part 

Some act by the delicate mind. 
Regardless of wringing and breaking a heart 

Already to sorrow resigned. 

This elegant rose had I shaken it less. 

Might have bloom'd with its owner awhile ; 

And the tear, that is wiped with a little address. 
May be followed perhaps by a smile. 



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SONGS dF ENGLAND AND IRELAND. 2^1 

[The foUowing compliment was sent by Cowper to the Count 
Gravina, on his translating the above song into Italian verse :— 
My Rose, Gravina, blooms anew. 

And steep*d not now in rain, 
But in Castalian streams by yon, 
Will never fsuAe again.] 



LORD GREGORY. 

;OHN WOLCOT. 
Bom l738~Died I819. 

" Ah ope. Lord Gregory, thy door, 
A midnight wanderer sighs. 
Hard rush the rains, the tempests roar. 
And lightnings cleave the skies. 

" Who comes with woe at this drear night — 
A pilgrim of the gloom ? 
If she whose love did once delight. 
My cot shall yield her room. 

" Alas ! thou heard'st a pilgrim mourn. 
That once was priz'd by thee : 
Think of the ring by yonder bum 
Thou gav'st to love and me. 

" But should'st thou not poor Marian know, 
I'll turn my feet and part ; 
And think the storms that round me blow. 
Far kinder than thy heart." 



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323 80HG8 or SNOLAND AND lEEI^AND. 

[Thk toag WM written hj the wittj Peter Pindar for George 
Thomaon't OoUection of NatknuU Aire. Hie bellad celled ** The Lnns 
of Lochroyen," printed in the Border lfina(rels7, [New Edition, 
▼oL S, p. Ml,] but pobUihed before that incompletelj in Heni*B Scottinli 
Sonci,ffeTeWoloot the Idee. Buns' beUad in imitation of it is wen 
known. See Cimningham's Bums, toI. 5, p. 48.] J 

\\ 



THE GYPSY. 
JOHN WOLCOT.* 

A wandering Gypsy, Sir, am I, 

From Norwood, where we oft complain. 
With many a tear, and many a sigh. 

Of blustering winds, and rushing rain : 
No rooms so fine, and gay attire, 

Amid our humble huts appear; 
Nor beds of down, or blazing fire, 

At night our shivering limbs to cheer. 

Alas I no friends come near our cot 

The red-breasts only find the way ; 
Who give their all, a simple note. 

At peep of dawn or parting day. 
But fortunes here I come to tell. 

Then yield me, gentle Sir, your hand ; 
Amid those lines what thousands dwell. 

And, bless me ! what a heap of land I 



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i 

I 



SONGS OF ENGLAND AND IRELAND. 223 

MARIAN'S COMPLAINT. 
JOHN WOLCOT. 

Since truth has left the shepherd's tongue. 
Adieu the cheerful pipe and song ; 
Adieu the dance at closing day. 
And, ah ! the happy mom of May. 

How oft he told me I was fair. 
And wove the garland for my hair ! 
How oft for Marian culPd the bower. 
And fill'd my lap with every flower ! 

No more his gifts of guile Pll wear. 
But from my brow the chaplet tear ; 
The crook he gave in pieces break. 
And rend his ribbons from my neck. 

How oft he vow'd a constant flame. 
And carv'd on every oak my name ! 
Blush Colin that the wounded tree 
Is all that will remember me. 



INVITATION TO CYNTHIA. 
JOHN WOLCOT. 

Come, Cynthia to thy shepherd's vale. 
Though tyrant mnter shade the same ; 

The leaflless grove has felt his gale. 
And every warbler mourns his reign. 



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224 SONGS OF ENGLAND AND IRELAND. 

Yet what to me the howling wind ? 

Thy voice the Linnet's song supplies. 
Or what the cloud to me who find 

Eternal sunshine in thine eyes. 



WHEN FIRST UPON YOUR TENDER CHEEK. 

MRS. BARBAULD. 

Bom 1743— Died 1825. 

When first upon your tender cheek 
I saw the mom of beauty break 

With mild and cheering beam, 
I bow'd before your infant shrine. 
The earliest sighs you had were min^, * 

And you my darling theme. 

I saw you in that opening mom 
For beauty's boundless empire bora. 

And first confess'd your sway ; 
And ere your thoughts devoid of art. 
Could leam the value of a heart, 

I gave my heart away. 

I watch'd the dawn of every grace, • 

And gaz'd upon that angel face. 

While yet 'twas safe to gaze ; 
And fondly bless'd each rising charm. 
Nor thought such innocence could harm 

The peace of future days. 



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SONGS OP ENGLAND AND IRELAND. 

But now despotic o'er the plains 
The awful noon of beauty reigns. 

And kneeling crowds adore ; 
These charms arise too fiercely bright. 
Danger and death attend the sight. 

And I must hope no more. 

Thus to the rising god of day 
Their early vows the Persians pay. 

And bless the spreading fire ; 
Whose glowing chariot mounting soon 
Pours on their heads the burning noon, 

They sicken and expire. 



225 



WHEN FIRST I SAW THEE GRACEFUL MOVE. 

When first I saw thee graceful move. 
Ah me ! what meant my throbbing breast ? 

Say, soft confusion, art thou love ? 
If love thou art, then farewell rest ! 

Since doom'd I am to love thee, fair. 
Though hopeless of a warm return. 

Yet kill me not with cold despair ; 
But let me live^ and let me burn. 

With gentle smiles assuage the pain 
Those gentle smiles did first create : 

And, though you cannot love again—* 
In pity 1 oh forbear to hate. 

VOL. I. Q 



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296 SONGS OF ENGLAND AND IRELAND. 

HAD I A HEART FOR FALSEHOOD FRAITD. 
R. B. SHERIDAN. 
Bom I7S1— Died 1816. 

Had I a heart for falsehood fram'd, 

I ne'er could injure you : 
For tho' your tongue no promise claim'd. 

Your charms would make me true. 
To you no soul shall bear decdt^ 

No stranger offer wrong ; 
But friends in all the ag'd you'll meet^ 

And lovlsrsin the young. 

But when they learn that you have blest 

Another with your heart. 
They'll bid aspiring passion rest. 

And act a brother's part. 
Then,, lady, dread not here deceit. 

Nor fear to suffer wro&g : 
For friends in all the ag'd you'll meet. 

And brothers in the young. 



[IntheDaenna.] 



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SONGS OF ENGLAND AND IRELAND. 2^7 

THOU CANST NOT BOAST OF FORTUNE'S STORE. 
R. B. SHERIDAN. 

Hiou canst not boast of fortune's store. 
My love, whUe me they wealthy call. 
But I was glod to find thee poor. 
For with my heart I'd give thee all. 

And then the grateful youth shall own, 
I lov'd him for himself alone. 

But when his worth my hand shall gain. 
No word or look of mine shall show. 
That I the smallest thought retain 
Of what my bounty did bestow. 

Yet still his grateful heart shall own, 
I lov'd him for himself alone. 

[Song bf Louisa in the Duenna.] 



WHEN SABLE NIGHT. 
R. B. SHERIDAN. 

When sable night, each drooping plant restoring. 
Wept o'er the flow'rs her breath did cheer. 

As some sad widow o'er her babe deploring. 
Wakes its beauty with a tear $ 



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298 SONGS OF ENGLAND AND IRELAND. 

When all did sleep, wliose weary hearts did borrow 

One hour from love and care*to rest, 
Lo ! as I press'd my couch in silent sorrow. 
My lover caught me to his breast ; 
He vow'd he came to save me 
From those who would enslave me ! 
Then kneeling. 
Kisses stealing. 
Endless faith he swore : 

But soon I bid him thence. 
For had his fond pretence. 
Obtained one favour then. 
And he had press'd again, ~ 
I fear'd my trefKiherous heart might grant him more. 



[In the Duenna. Barns in one of his letters to George Thomson 
c^s this " a pretty English song to the air of ' Saw ye my Father.* "] 



THINK NOT MY LOVE. 
R. B. SHEBIDAN. 

Think not, my love, when secret grief 

Preys on my sadden'd iieart. 
Think Hot I wish a mean relief. 

Or would from sorrow part. 
Dearly I prize the sighs sincere. 

That my true fondness prove. 
Nor could I bear to check the tear 

That flows from hapless love. 



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SONGS OP ENGLAND AND IRELAND. ^29 

Alas ? though doom'd to hope in vain 

The joys that love requite. 
Yet will I cherish all its pain. 

With sad but dear delight. 
This treasured grief, this lov'd despair 

My lot for ever be : 
But dearest, may the pangs I bear 

Be never known to thee. 



O HAD MY LOVE. 
R. B. SHERIDAN. 

O had my love ne'er smil'd on me, 
I ne'er had known such anguish ; 

But think how false, how cruel she. 
To bid me cease to languish : 

To bid me hope her hand to gain. 
Breathe on a flame half perish'd ; 

And then with cold and fix'd disdain. 
To kill the hope she cherish'd. 

Not worse his fate, who on a wreck. 
That drove as winds did blow it ; 

Silent had left the shatter'd deck. 
To find a grave below it. 

Then land viras cried no more resign'd. 
He glow'd with joy to hear it ; 

Not wors^ his fate, his woe to find. 
The wreck must sink ere near it. 



[In the Daenoa.] 



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230 SONGS OF ENGLAND AND IRELAND. 



A BACCHANALIAN. 

THOMAS CHATTERTON. 
Born 1753— Died 1770. 

What is war and all its joys ? 
Useless mischief, empty noise. 
What are anns and trophies won ? 
Spangles glittering in the sun. 
Rosy Bacchus give me wine. 
Happiness is only thine. 

What is love without the bowl ? 
*Tis a languor of the soul : 
Crown'd with ivy, Venus charms. 
Ivy courts me to her arms. 
Bacchus ^ve me love and wine. 
Happiness is only thine. 



LOVELY GWEN. 



Turn, lovely Gwen, be good and kind. 

And listen to thy lover's prayer. 
Full well I know, there's none so blind. 

But must adore my charming fair. 

Despise me not for being poor, 

I am not very rich 'tis true ; 
But if thou canst my lot endure, 

I shall be rich enough in you. 

[From Jones' Tianslatioiis of old Welsh poetry, amongr irtUefa 
there are many happy lines and pretty thooghts.] 



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SONGS OF ENGLAND AND IRELAND. 231 

THE STORM. 

GEORGE ALEXANDER STETENS. 

Died 1784. 

Cease, rude Boreas, blust'iing" raUer ! 

List, ye landsmen, all to me ! 
Messmates, hear a brother sailor 

Sing the dangers of the sea ; 
From bounding billows, fast in motion. 

When the distant whirlwinds rise. 
To the tempest-troubled ocean. 

Where the seas contend with skies ! 

Hark ! the boatsw^n hoarsely bawling. 

By topsail-sheets and haul-yards stand ! 
Down top-gallants quick be hauling ; 

Down your stay-sails, hand, boys, hand ! 
Now it freshens, set the braces. 

Quick the topsail-sheets let go ; 
Luflf, boys, luff I don't make wry faces. 

Up your topsails nimbly clew. 

Now all you on down-beds sporting. 

Fondly lock'd in beauty's arms ; 
Fresh enjoyments wanton courting. 

Safe from all but love's alarms ; 
Roimd us roars the tempest louder ; 

Think what fear our minds enthrals. 
Harder yet, it yet blows harder. 

Now again the boatswain calls ! 



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232 SONGS OF ENGLAND AND IRELAND. 

The top-8ul yards point to the wind, boys. 

See all clear to reef each course ; 
Let the fore-sheet go, donH mind, boys. 

Though the weather should be worse. 
Fore and aft the sprit-sail yard get. 

Reef the mizen, see all clear ; 
Hands up, each preventure-brace set, 

Man the fore-yard, cheer, lads, cheer? 

Now the dreadful thunder's roaring. 

Peal on peal contending clash. 
On our heads fierce rain falls pouring. 

In our eyes blue lightnings flash. 
One wide water all around us. 

All above us one black sky. 
Different deaths at once surround us : 

Hark ! what means that dreadful cry ? 

The foremast's gone, cries every tongue out. 

O'er the lee, twelve feet 'bove deck ; 
A leak beneath the chest-tree's sprung out. 

Call all hands to clear the wreck. 
Quick the lanyards cut to pieces : 

Come, my hearts, be stout and bold : 
Plumb the well — the leak increases. 

Four feet water in the hold ! 

While o'er the ship wild waves are beating. 
We for wives or children mourn j 

Alas ! from hence there's no retreating, 
Alas ! to them there's no return. 

Still the leak is gaining on us : • ' 

^ Both chain-pumps are chok'd below — 

Heav'n have mercy here upon us I 
For only that can save us now. 



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80NOS OF ENGLAND AND IRELAND. 



-i^ 



2:53 



O'er the lee-beam is the land, boys. 

Let the guns o'erboard be thrown ; 
To the pump let every hand, boys ; 

See ! our mizen-mast is gone. 
The leak we've found, it cannot pour fast. 

We've lighten'd her a foot or more ; 
Up, and rig a jury foremast, 

She rights, she rights ! boys — we're off shore. 

Now once more on joys we're thinking. 

Since kind Heav'n has sav'd our lives ; 
Come, the can, boys ! let's be drinking 

To our sweethearts and our wives. 
Fill it up, about ship wheel it. 

Close to our lips a brimmer join ; 
Where's the tempest now — who feels it ? 

None — the danger's drown'd in wine. 



EGeorge Alexander Stevens was a well known actor towards the 
close of the last century, hat his fame was ephemeral, for his name 
is now seldom or never mentioned. His songs were in sach repate 
in his day, that various collections of them were pirated by knavish 
booksellers, to the great injury of the author; few of them reach 
mediocrity. The following extract from a letter, will give some idea 
of the ingenioos lecturer on heads } it is dated from a gaol at Yar- 
mouth, into which he had been thrown for debt : — 

** This week's eating finishes my last waistcoat ; and next, I must 
atone for my errors on bread and water. A wig has fed n>e two 
days— the trimming of a waistcoat as long— a pair of velvet breeches 
paid my washerwoman— and a rufBe-shirt has found me in shaving. 
My coats I swallowed by degrees ; the sleeves I breakfasted upon for 
weekft— Uie body, skirts, &c. served me for dinner two months— my 
sUk stockings have paid my lodgings, and two pair of new pumps 
enabled me to smoke several pipes. It is incredible how my appetite 
(barometer like) rises in proportion as my necessities make their 



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234 SONGS OF ENGLAND AND IRELAND* 

terrible advances. I here could say sometliing droll about a sbonuudi ; 
bat it is ill jesting with edged tools, and I am sure that is the aharpeat 
thing about me." 

' The Storm' has frequently however been printed as the composi- 
tion of Falconer, the author of the Shipwreck. The Naval Chronide, 
in vol. 2, p. 233, says, in support of the northern authorship. 

" This beautifal and descriptive ballad has been long given with 
singular injustice to George Alexander Stevens; we have particular 
pleasure in again bringing it back to its real author, the unfinlimate 
. Falconer, by whom it was originally composed. It was astonfahing 
that the public should so readily believe it the production of a writer, 
who, however qualified to cdebrate the mad riot of the baodianalian 
crew, was utterly unacquainted with the sublime terror of the ocean, 
which poor Falconer thus sung with all the sublimity and c 
observation of a seaman."] 



I SAILED FROM THE DOWNS. 
CHARLES DIBDIN. 

I sul'd from the Downs in the Nancy» 

My jib how she smackM thro* the breeze^ 
She's a vessel as tight to my fancy 

As ever sail'd on the salt seas. 
So, adieu ! to the white cliffs of Briton, 

Our girls, and our dear native shore. 
For if some hard rock we should split on. 

We shall never see them any more. 
But sailors were bom for all weathers. 

Great guns let it blow high, blow low» 
Our duty keeps us to our tethers. 

And where the gale drives we must go. 



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80N0R OF ENGI«AND AND IREI«AND. 235 

When we enter'd the g^t of Gibraltar, 

I verily thought Bhe'd have sunk ; 
For the wind bo began for to alter. 

She yaw'd just as tliof she was drunk. 
The squall tore the munsail to shivers, — 

Helm a-weather, the hoarse boatswain cries. 
Brace the fore-sul athwart, see she quivers. 

As thro' the rude tempest she flies. 

The storm came on thicker and faster. 

As black just as pitch was the sky : 
When truly a doleful disaster 

Befell three poor sailors and I : 
Ben Bimtline, Sam Shroud, and Dick HandsaU, 

By a blast that came furious and hard. 
Just while we were furling the mtunsail. 

Were every soul swept from the yard. 

Poor Ben, Sam, and Dick cried Peccavi; 

As for I, at the risk of my neck, ' 
While they sunk down in peace to old Davy, 

Caught a rope and so landed on deck. 
Well, what would you have ? we were stranded. 

And out of a fine jolly crew. 
Of three hundred that sailM never landed. 

But I, and I think twenty-two. 

After thus we at sea had miscarried. 

Another guess-way sat the wind. 
For to England I came and got married. 

To a lass that was comely and kind : 
But whether for joy or vexation. 

We know not ifor what we were born ; 
Perhaps I may find a kind station. 

Perhaps I may touch at Cape Horn. 



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236 SONGS OF ENGLAND AND IRELAND. 

For sailors were bom for all weathers. 
Great guns let it blow high, blow low, 

Our duty keeps us to our tethers. 
And where the gale drives we must go. 



YE FLOWERS THAT BLOOM. 
CHARLES DIBDIN. 

Ye flowers that bloom in yonder mead. 

Where flows the crystal tide. 
And nibling lambkins sportive feed. 

Along the current's side. 
Ye oft have seen, and smil'd to see. 
My love to him, his love to me. 

Witness, ye flocks, ye herds, ye fawns. 

That o'er the pastures stray. 
Witness ye mounttdns, groves, and lawns. 

Each painted child of May : 
The greatest bliss I e'er can prove 
Is to return my shepherd's love. 



PEGGY PERKINS. 
CHARLES DIBDIN. 

Let bards elate 

Of Sue and Kate, 
And Moggy take their fill O 

And pleas'd rehearse. 

In jingling verse 
The lass of Richmond Hill O. 



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1 



SONGS OP ENGLAND AND IRELAND. 237 

A lass more bright 
. My amorous flighty 
Impell'd by love's fond workings. 

Shall loudly sing. 

Like anything, 
*Tis charming Peggy Perkins. 

Some men compare 

The favourite fair 
To every thing in Nature ? 

Her eyes divine 

Are suns that shine. 
And so on with each feature. 

Leave, leave ye fools 

These hackneyed rules. 
And all such subtle quirkings. 

Sun, moon, and stars 

Are all a farce — 
Compar*d to Peggy Perkins. 



CR^Zy JANE. 

M. G. LEWIS. 
Born 1773— Died 1818. 

Why fair maid in every feature 
Are such signs of fear expressed ? 

Can a wand'ring wretched creature 
With such terror fill thy breast ? 



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238 



80N08 or ENGLAND AND IKSI.AND. 



Do my frenzied looks alarm thee ? 

Trust me, sweet, thy fears are ?ain ; 
Not for kingdoms would I harm thee ; 

Shun not then poor Crazy Jane ! 

Dost thou weep to see my anguish? 

Mark me, and avoid my woe : 
When men flatter, sigh, and languish. 

Think them false— *I found them so : 
For I loved, oh ! so sincerely. 

None can ever love again j 
But the youth I loved so dearly 

Stole the wits of Crazy Jane I 

Fondly my young heart received him. 

Which was doomed to love but one ; 
He sighed, he vowed, and I believed him- 

He was false, and I undone ! 
From that hour has reason never 

Held her empire o'er my brain, 
Henry fled ; with him, for ever. 

Fled the wits of Crazy Jane ! 

Now forlorn and broken-hearted. 
And with frenzied thoughts beset. 

On that spot where last we parted. 
On that spot where first we met. 

Still I sing my love-lorn ditty. 
Still I slowly pace the plain ; 

While each passer-by, in pity, 

' Cries-*God help thee. Crazy Jane ! 



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SONGS OF ENGLAND AND IRELAND. 239 



WILLIAM AND SUSAN. 



M. G. LEWIS. 

When forcM to quit his native land. 

Young William bade fareweU, 
As Susan fondly wrung his hand 

Her tears in torrents fell ; 
And soft she sighM, her anxious heart. 

With many a fear beset. 
Oh I would we were not now to part. 

Or that we ne'er had met. 

Dame Fortune smiFd on William's pains. 

And blest his growing store. 
Now gone three years, his honest gains. 

To Susan's feet he bore, 
" Nor think," he said, " that William's heart. 

Can e'er its yows forget. 
Dismiss your fears, no more we'll part. 

Since we once more have met." 

Ah ! ere the honey-moon was flown, 

They curs'd the marriage life, 
A very husband Will was grown. 

And Sue a very wife. 
She said that he was false at heart. 

He call'd her light coquette. 
And both exclaim'd next week we'll part, 

I wish we ne'er had met. 



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240 



SONGS OF ENOLANIO AND IRELAND. 



NANINE, OR THE EMIGRANT. 
M. G. LEWIS. 

On the waves the wind was sleeping. 

Swift the boat approachM the land ; 
There a lovely maid was weeping", 

Who can female tears withstand ? 
Hush'd at once the boatswain's ditty. 

Gently dipp*d his silent oar ; 
While he said in sounds of pity. 

Prithee, sweet-heart, weep no more. 

Then on land he sprung so lightly. 

While with mingled hopes and fears,. 
Rais'd her head and beaming brightly. 

Shone her blue eyes thro' her tears. 
Left exposed to want and danger. 

Friendless on a foreign shore; 
Ah ! she said, you vtdnly, stranger. 

Kindly tell me, weep no more. 

Far from home in exile roving. 

Who shall now my shelter be. 
Lost each friend, so loved, so loving. 

Now what heart shall feel for me ? 
Poor Nanine, thy brain is turning. 

Poor Nanine, thy heart is sore. 
Poor Nanine, thy tears are burning, 

Die Nanine, and weep no more. 



dbyGOOglt 



SONGS OF ENGl\nD AND IRELAND. 24 L 

Mark, he cried, yon distant city. 

There my shelter, thine shall be, 
Mark my bosom swelPd b^pity. 

There's a heart which feels for thee ; 
All my wealth I here surrender, 

'Tis not gems or shining ore, 
'Tis a heart, warm, honest, tender. 

Take- it, 'Sweet, and weep no more. 

Gently tow'rds his boat he led her. 

Soon it touch'd his native strand. 
There his labour cloth'd and fed her. 

There he gain'd her heart and hand. 
Still with love his eyes behold her. 

Still tho' many a year is o'er. 
Does he bless the hour he told her. 

Prithee, sweetheart, weep no more ! 



EVAN BANKS. 

MISS HELEN MARIA WILLIAMS, 

Born 1763— Died 1828. 

Slow spreads the gloom my soul desires. 
The sun from India's shore retires : 
To Evan banks with temp'rate ray,^ 
Home of my youth, he leads the day. 
Oh banks to me for ever dear 1 
Oh stream, whose murmurs still I hear 
All, all my hopes of bliss reside 
Where Evan mingles with the Clyde. 

VOL. I. R 



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242 SONGS OF ENGLAND AND IRELAND. 

And she, in simple beauty drest. 
Whose image lives within my breast ; 
Who trembling' heard my parting sigh. 
And long pursued me with her eye : 
Does she, with heart unchang'd as mine. 
Oft in the vocal bowers recline? 
Or, where yon grot o'erhangs the tide. 
Muse, while the Evan seeks the Clyde? 

Ye lofty banks that Evan bound ! 
Ye lavish woods that wave around. 
And o'er the stream your shadows throw. 
Which sweetly winds so far below ; 
What secret charm to mem'ry brings. 
All that on Evan's border springs ; 
Sweet banks ! ye bloom by Mary's side : 
Blest stream ! she views thee haste to Clyde ! 

Can all the wealth of India's coast 
Atone for years in absence lost ? 
Return ye moments of delight. 
With richer treasures bless my sight I 
Swift from this desert let me part, • 
And fly to meet a kindred heart ! 
Nor more may ought my steps divide 
From that dear stream which flows to Clyde. 



[This loveljr song has been printed as Barns*, an honoor its bean, 
ties entitle it to. It appeared first with Bums' name, in Johnson's 
Mosif^ Mosenm, from whence it was copied by Carrie and Cromek. 
Sir Walter Scott pointed out the error in the first number of the 
Quarterly Revievi', and gave it to its fair author, and in 18S3, Miss 
WUUams printed it among her poems } notwithstanding this, Mr. 
Hogg, Mr. Motherwell, and Mr. Buchan, three men who have been 
labouring all their liyes in Scottish song, have inserted it in the 
Glasgow edition of Bums' works, without a note or an allusion to 
MissWiUiama. This is too bad !] 



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] 



SONGS OF ENGLAND AND IRELAND. 243 

AH\ EVAN BY THY WINDING STREAM. 
MISS HELEN MARIA WILLIAMS. 

Ah, E?an, by thy windin|f stream 

How once I lov'd to stray. 
And view the morning's reddening beam. 

Or charm of closing day 

To yon dear grot by Evan's side. 

How oft njy steps were led. 
Where far beneath the waters glide. 

And thick the woods are spread ! 

But I no more a charm can see 

In Evan's lovely glades : 
And drear and desolate to me 

Are those enchanting shades. 

While far— how far from Evan's bowers. 

My wandering lover flies ; 
Where dark the angry tempest lowers 

And high the billows rise ! 

And O, where'er the wanderer goes 

Is that poor mourner dear. 
Who gives, while soft the Evan flows. 

Each passing wave a tear ! 

And does he now that grotto view ? 

On those steep banks still gaze i 
In fancy does he still pursue 

The £\'an'8 lovely maze ? 



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244 80NOS OF ENGLAND AND IRELAND. 

^ O come ! repass the stormy wave, 
O toil for gold no more ! 
Our love a dearer pleasure gave 
On Evaji's peaceful shore. 

Leave not my breaking heart to mourn 
The joys so long denied ; 

Ah ! soon to those green banks return 
Where Evan meets the Clyde. 



LAURA. 

G. TURNBULL. 

Let me wander where I will. 
By shady wood, or winding rill ; 
Where the sweetest May-bom flowers 
Paint the meadows, deck the bowers ; 
Where the linnet's early song 
Echoes sweet the woods among : 
Let me wander where I will, 
Laura haunts my fancy stiD. 

If at rosy dawn I chuse 
To indulge the smiling muse ; 
If I court some cool retreat. 
To avoid the noon-tide heat ; 
If beneath the moon's pale ray. 
Thro' unfrequented wilds I stray ; 
Let me wander where I will, 
Laura haunts my fancy still. 



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S0N08 OF ENGLAND AND IRELAND. 245 

When at night the drowsy god 
Waves his sleep-compelling rod. 
And to fancy's wakeful eyes 
Bids celestial visions rise ; 
While with boundless joy I rove 
Thro' the fairy land of love : 
Let me wander where I will, 
Laura haunts my fancy still. 



. THE NIGHTINGALE. 
G. TURNBULL. 

Thou sweetest minstrel of the grove. 
That ever tried the plaintive strain ; 

Awake thy tender tale of love. 
And soothe a poor forsaken swain. 

For tho' the muses deign to aid. 
And teach him smoothly to complain ; 

Yet Delia, charming, cruel maid. 
Is deaf to her forsaken swain. 

All day, with fashion's gaudy sons. 
In sport she wanders o'er the plain ; 

Their tales approves, and still she shuns 
The notes of her forsaken swain. 

When evening shades obscure the sky. 
And bring the solemn hours again. 

Begin, sweet bird, thy melody. 
And soothe a poor forsaken swain. 



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^46 SONGS OF ENGIRD AND IBELAND. 

[Who Mi. TarnbaU wms I cannot tell. These two prettf Sonst 
came recommended to Thomson's Collection, from no less a person 
than Robert Bnms, ** Possibly, as he is an old friend of mine,** the 
poet writes, " I may be prejadiced in his favonr, bat I like some of 
his poems rery much." Works by Conningfaam, Vol. Y. p. istf. Hie 
Editor has phiced Mr. Tambnll's Songs in the English Collection, for 
he is ignorant of what country their anUior was a native and bis 
songs have none of the peculiarities of the Scottish.] 



I UK'D BUT NEVER LOVD BEFORE. 

I lik'd but never lov'd before 

I saw thy charming face ; 
Now every feature I adore. 

And dote on every grace. 

She ne'er shall know the kind desire, 
Which her cold look denies. 

Unless my heart that's all on fire. 
Should sparkle through my eyes. 

Then if no gentle glance return 

A silent leave to speak. 
My heart, which would for ever burn, 

Must sigh, alas ! and break. 



OH ! THE MOMENT WAS SAD ! 

Oh ! the moment was sad when my love and I parted, 

Savourna Delish Shighan Oh 
As I kiss'd off her tears, I was nigh broken-hearte<l, 

Savourna, &c. 



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SONGS OF ENGLAND AND IBKLAND. 247 

Wan was her cheek, which hung on my shoulder, 
Ddinp was her hand— no marble was colder ; 
I felt that I never again should behold her, 
Savouma, &c. 

When the word of command put our men into motion, 

Savouma, &c. 
I buckled on my knapsack to cross the wide ocean, 

Savourna, &c. 
Brisk were our troops, all roaring like thunder, 
ReasM with the voyage, impatient for plunder. 
While my bosom with grief was nigh torn asunder, 

Savouma, &c. 

Long I fought for my country, far, far from my true love, 

Savouma, &c. 
All my pay and my booty I hoarded for you love, 

Savouma, &c. 
Peace was proclaimed ; escap'd from the slaughter. 
Landed at home, my sweet girl I sought her ; 
But sorrow, alas I to the cold grave had brought her, 

Savouma, &c. 



KITTY OF COLERAINE. 



As beautiful Kitty one morning was tripping 
With a pitcher of milk from the fair of Coleraine, 

When she saw me she stumbled, the pitcher it tumbled. 
And all the sweet butter-milk water'd the plain. 

" what shall I do now?— 'twas looking at you now ; 

Sure sure, such a pitcher I'll ne'er meet again ; 
Twas the pride of my dearie : O Barney M'Cleary ! 

You're sent as a plague to the girls of Coleraine." 



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248 SONGS OF ENGLAND AND IRELAND. 

I sat down beside her, sgid gently did chide her 
That such a misfortune should give her such pidn ; 

A kiss then I gave her, and before I did leave her. 
She vow'd for such pleasure she'd break it agiun. 

'Twas hay-making season, I can't tell the reason. 
Misfortune will never come single, 'tis plain ; 

For very soon after poor Kitty's disaster. 
The devil a pitcher was whole in Colendne. 



COME, ANNAl COME, THE MORNING DAWNS. 

HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 

Born 1785— Died 1800. 

Come, Anna I come, the morning dawns. 

Faint streaks of radiance tinge the skies ; 
Come, let us seek the dewy lawns. 
And watch the early lark arise ; 
While nature, clad in vesture gay. 
Hails the loved return of day. 

Our flocks, that nip the scanty blade. 
Upon the noon shall seek the vale ; 
And then, secure beneath the shade. 
We'll listen to the throstle's tale; 
And watch the silver clouds above. 
As o'er the azure vault they rove. 



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SONGS OF ENGLAND AND IRELAND. 249 

Come, Anna ! come, and bring thy lute. 

That with its tones, so softly sweet. 
In cadence wi\h my mellow flute. 
We may beguile the noontide heat ; 
While near the mellow bee shall join. 
To raise a harmony divine. 

And then*at eve, when silence reigns. 

Except when heard the beetle's hum. 
We'll leave the sober tinted plains. 
To these sweet heights again we'll come ; 
And thou to thy soft lute shall play, 
A solemn vesper to departing day. 



BE HUSH'D, BE HUSH'D, YE BnTER WINDS. 

HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 

Be hush'd, be hush'd, ye bitter winds. 

Ye pelting rains, a little rest ; 
Lie still, lie still, ye busy thoughts. 

That wring with grief my aching breast. 

Oh ! cruel was my faithless love. 
To triumph o'er an artless maid ; 

Oh ! cruel was my faithless love. 
To leave the breast by him betray'd. 

When exiled from my native home. 
He should have wiped the bitter tear ; 

Nor left me faint and lone to roam, 
A heart-sick weary wanderer here. 



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250 SONGS OF ENGLAND AND IRELAND. 

My child moans sadly in my anns^ 
The winds they will not let it sleep : 

Ah, little knows tiie hapless babe 
What makes its wretched mother weep ! 

Now lie thee still my infant dear, 
I cannot bear thy sobs to see. 

Harsh is thy fisither, little one. 
And never will he shelter thee. 

Oh, that I were but in my grave. 
And winds were piping o'er me loud. 

And thou, my poor, my orphan babe. 
Were nestling in thy mother's shroud. 



THE ARETHUSA. 

PRINCE HOARE. 

Died 1834. 



Come all you jolly sulors bold. 

Whose hearts are cast in honour's mould. 

While English glory I unfold. 

Huzza to the Arethusa ! 
She is a frigate tight and brave. 
As ever stemmed the dashing wave : 

Her men are staunch. 

To their, favourite launch. 
And when the foe shall meet our fire. 
Sooner than strike we'll all expire. 

On board of the Arethusa. 



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SONGS OF ENGLAND AND IRELAND. 251 

'Twas with the spring-fleet she went out. 
The English channel to cruize about. 
When four French sail in shew so stout. 

Bore down on the Arethusa. 
The fam'd Belle Poole straight-a-head did lie. 
The Arethusa seem'd to fly; 

Not a sheet or a tack. 

Or a brace did she slack. 
Though the Frenchmen laugh'd and thought it stuff. 
But they knew not, a handful of men how tough. 

On board of the Arethusa. 

On deck five hundred men did dance. 
The stoutest they could find in France, 
We with two hundred did advance. 

On board of the Arethusa. 
Our captain hail'd the Frenchman, ho ! 
The Frenchmen they cried out, hallo ! 

Bear down, d'ye see. 

To our admiral's lee. 
No, no, says the Frenchman, that can't be ; 
Then I must lug you along with me. 

Says the saucy Arethusa. 

The fight was off the Frenchmen's land. 
We forc'd them back upon their strand. 
For we fought till not a plank would stand. 

Of the gallant Arethusa. 
And now we've driven the foe ashore. 
Never to fight with Britons more. 

Let each fill a glass. 

To his favourite lass ! 
A health to our captain and officers true. 
And all that belong to the jovial crew. 

On board of the Arethusa. 



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252 SONGS OF ENGLAND AND IRELAND. 



WILLY FOUND MALVINA MOURNING. 

Willy found Malvina mourning, 
Bath'd her cheeks with pearly tears, 

Hia fond lips, the fair one's sorrow, 
Kiss'd away and stay'd her fears. 

Could Malvina think her Willy 

Ever tender, ever true. 
When her cheek should thus be drooping. 

Tears and lips he'd kiss them too. 

These fond arms should often press her. 
To this bosom's home of love. 

These fond lips should oft caress her — 
Like as angels kiss above. 

Could Malvina think her Willy, 
Tender, constant, just and true — 

When his sweet one thus should sorrow. 
Tears and lips he'd kiss them too. 



MY NATIVE LAND, ADIEU! 

Adieu ! my native land, adieu ! 

The vessel spreads her swelling sails ; 
Perhaps I never more may view 

Your fertile fields and flowery dales. 
Delusive hope can charm no more ; 

Far from the faithless mud I roam ; 
Unfriended seek some foreign shore, 

Unpity'd leave my peaceful home. 



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SONGS OF ENGLAND AND IRELAND. 253 

Farewell, dear village. Oh, farewell ! 

Soft on the gale the murmur dies ; 
I hear thy solemn evening bell 5 

Thy spires yet glad mine aching eye», 
Tho' frequent falls the dazzling tear, 

I'd scorn to shrink at fate's decree ; 
Yet think not cruel maid that e'er 

I'll breathe another sigh for thee. 

In vain thro' shades of frowning night. 

Mine eyes thy rocky coast explore ; 
Deep sinks the fiery orb of light ; 

I view thy beacons now no more. 
Rise billows, rise ! blow hollow wind I 

Nor night, nor storms, nor death I fear ; 
Ye friendly bear me hence to find 

That peace which fate denies me here. 



THE GIRL OF CADIZ. 

LORD BTRON. 

Born 1788— Died 1834. 

Oh never talk again to me 

Of northern climes and British ladies ; 
It has not been your lot to see. 

Like me, the lovely Girl of Cadiz. 
Although her eye be not of blue. 

Nor fair her locks like English lasses. 
How far its own expressive hue. 

The languid azure eye surpasses ! 



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254 SONGS OF ENGLAND AND IRELAND. 

Prometheus-like, ^oin heaven she stole 

The fire, that through those silken lashes 
In darkest glances seems to roll. 

From eyes that cannot hide their flashes : 
And as along her bosom steal 

In lengthen'd flow her raven tresses. 
You'd swear each clustering lock could feel 

And curl'd to give her neck caresses. 

Our English msdds are long to woo. 

And frigid even in possession ; 
And if their charms be fair to view. 

Their lips are slow at love's confession : 
But bom beneath a brighter sun. 

For love ordain'd the Spanish maid is. 
And who, — when fondly, fairly won — 

Enchants you like the girl of Cadiz ? 

The Spanish maid is no coquette. 

Nor joys to see a lover tremble. 
And if she love, or if she hate. 

Alike she knows not to dissemble. 
Her heart can ne'er be bought or sold — 

Howe'er it beats, it beats sincerely ; 
And, though it will not bend to gold, 

*Twill love you long and love you dearly. 

The Spanish girl that meets your love 

Ne'er taunts you with a mock denial. 
For every thought is bent to provc^ 

Her passion in the hour of trial. 
When thronging foemen menace Spain, 

She dares the deed and shares the danger ; 
And should her lover press the plain. 

She hurls the spear, her love's avenger. 



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SONGS OF ENGLAND AND IRELAND. 255 

And when, b^eneath the evening star. 

She mingles in the gay Bolero, 
Or sings to her attuned guitar. 

Of Christian knight or Moorish hero. 
Or counts her beads with fairy hand 

Beneath the twinkling rays of Hesper, 
Or joins devotions choral band. 

To chaunt the sweet and hallow'd Vesper ; — 

In each her charms the heart must move. 

Of all who venture to behold her ; . 
Then let not maids less fair reprove 

Because her bosom is not colder : 
Through many a clime 'tis mine to roam 

Where many a soft and melting maid is, 
But none abroad, and few at home. 

May match the dark-eyed girl of Cadiz. 



[" Tbe girl of Cadiz** was found in the orig^iqal MS. of the first 
Canto of ChUde Harold, in place of the song " To Inez.'*] 



SHE WALKS IN BEAUTY. 
LORD feYRON. 

She walks in beauty, like the night 
Of cloudless climes and starry skies; 

And all that's best of dark and bright 
Meet in her aspect and her eyes : 

Thus mellow'd to that tender light 
Which heaven to gaudy day denies. 



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^56 SONGS OF ENGLAND AND IRELAND. 

One shade the more, one ray the ess. 
Had half impair'd the nameless grace 

Which waves in every raven tress. 
Or softly lightens o'er her face ; 

Where thoughts serenely sweet express 
How pure, how dear their dwelling-place. 

And on that cheek and o'er that brow. 
So soft, so calm, yet eloquent, 

The smiles that win, the tints that glow. 
But tell of days in goodness spent, 

A mind at peace with all below, 
A heart whose love is innocent ! 



[From the Hebrew Melodies. " These stanzas/' says the Editor of 
Byron's Works, vol. 10, p. 75, " were written hy Lord Byron, on 
returning from a ball-room, where he had seen Mrs. (now Lady) 
Wilmot Horton, the wife* of his relation the present Governor at 
Ceylon. On this occasion, Mrs. W. H. had appeared in moomiiir* 
with numerous spangles on her dress."] 



THE DESTRUCTION OF SENNACHERIB. 
LORD BYBON. 

The Assyrian came down like the wolf in the fold. 
And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold ; 
And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea. 
When the blue wave rolls niglvtly on deep Galilee. 

Like the leaves of the forest when summer is green. 
That host with their banners at sunset were seen : 
Like the leaves of the forest when autumn hath blown. 
That host on the morrow lay wither'd and strown. 



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SONGS OF ENGLAND AND IRKLAND. 2157 

For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast. 
And breath'd in the face of the foe as he pass'd ; 
And the eyes of the sleepers waxed deadly and chill. 
And their hearts but once heav'd and for ever grew still! 

And there lay the steed with his nostril all wide. 
But through it there roU'd not the breath of his pride : 
And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf. 
And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf. 

And there lay the rider distorted and pale. 
With the dew on his brow, and the rust on his mail ; 
And the tents were all silent, the banners alone. 
The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown. 

And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wul. 
And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal ; 
And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword, 
Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord ! 



[From the Hebrew Melodies.] 

KNOW YE THE LAND? 
LORD BVRON. 

Know ye the land where the cypress and myrtle 
Are emblems of deeds that are done in their clime. 

Where the rage of the vulture, the love of the turtle. 
Now melt into sorrow, now madden to crime ? 

Know ye the land of the cedar and vine. 

Where the flowers ever blossom, the beams ever shine ; 

VOL. I. 8 

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258 SONGS OF ENGLAND AND IRELAND. 

Where the light wings of Zephyr, oppressed with per- 
fume. 
Wax faint o'er the gardens of Gdl in her bloom ; 
Where the citron and olive are fairest of fruit. 
And the voice of the nightingale never is mute : 
Where the tints of the earth and the hues of the sky. 
In colour though varied, in beauty may vie. 
And the purple of ocean is deepest in dye ; 
Where the virgins are soft as the roses they twine. 
And all, save the spirit of man, is divine? 
*Tis the clime of the East, 'tis the land of the sun — 
Can he smile on such deeds as his children have done ? 
Oh ! wild as the accents of lover's f^rewell> 
Are the hearts which they bear, and the tales which 
. they tell. 

[From the Bride of Abydos.j 



ON PARTING. 
LORD BYRON. 

The kiss, dear maid ! thy lip has left. 

Shall never part from mine, 
Till happier hours restore the gift 

Untainted back to thine. 

Thy parting glance, which fondly beams. 

An equal love may see : 
The tear that from thine eyelid streams 

Can weep no change in me. 



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SONGS OF BNGLAND AND IRELAND. 259 

I ask no pledge to make me blest 

In gazing when alone ; 
Nor one memorial for a breast. 

Whose thoughts are all thine own. 

Nor need I write — ^to tell the tale 

My pen were doubly weak : 
Oh ! what can idle words avail. 

Unless the heart could speak ? 

By day or night, in weal or woe. 

That heart, no longer free. 
Must bear the love it cannot show. 

And silent ache for thee. 



1 SPEAK NOT, I TRACK NOTl 

LORD BTRON. 

I speak not, I trace not, I breathe not thy name. 
There is grief in the sound, there is guilt in the fame : 
But the tear which now burns on my cheek may impart 
The deep thoughts that dwell in that silence of heart. 

Too brief for our passion, too long for our peace 
Were those hours— can their joy or their bitterness 

cease? 
We repent— we abjure— we will break from our chain, — 
We will part,— we will fly to — ^unite it again ! 



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960 SONGS or ENGLAND AND IKELARDv 

Oh ! thine be the gladness, and mine be the gfoilt ! 
Forgive me, adored one ! — forsake if thou wilt ; — 
But the heart which is thine shall expire undebased. 
And man shall not break it — whatev^* thou mayst. 

And stem to the haughty but humble to thee. 

This soul in its bitterest blackness shall be ; 

And our days seem as swift, and our moments more 

sweet. 
With thee by my side, than ^th worlds at our feet. 

One sigh of thy sorrow, one look of thy love. 
Shall turn me or fix, shall reward or reprove ; 
And the heartless may wonder at all I resign — 
Thy lip shall reply, not to them, but to mine. 



i** Thoa hast asked me for a song," Lord Byron wrote to Mr. Moore, 
" and I enclose you an experiment which has cost me something 
more than trouble, and is, therefore, less likely to he worth your 
taking any in yonr proposed setting. Now, if it be so, throw it into 
the fire without pArofe." Letter, May 10, 1814.] 



GENEVIEVE. 
8 T COLERIDGE. 

Maid of my Love, sweet Genevieve ! 
In beauty's light you glide along : 
Your eye is like the star of eve. 
And sweet your voice as seraph's song. 
Yet not your heavenly beauty gives 
This heart with passions soft to glow : 
Within your soid a voice there lives ! 
It bids you hear the tale of woe. 



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SONGS OF ENGLAND AND IRELAND. 261 

When sinking low the sufferer wan 

Beholds no hand outstretcht to save. 

Fur as the bosom of the swan 

That rises graceful o'er the wave, 

I've seen your breast with pity heave 

And therefore love I you, sweet Genevieve ! 



CATHERINE ORKNEY. 
CHARLES LAMB. 

Cailadia ! boast no more the toils 
Of hunters for the furry spoils ; 
Your whitest ermines are but foils 

To brighter Catherine Orkney. 

That such a flower should ever burst 
From climes with rigorous winter curst 1 — 
We bless you, that so kindly nurst 

This flower, this Catherine Orkney. 

We envy not your proud display 
Of lake — ^wood — ^vast Niagara : 
Your greatest pride we've borne away. 

How spared you Catherine Orkney ? 

That Wolfe on Heights of Abraham fell. 
To your reproach no more we tell : 
Canadia, you repaid us well 

With rearing Catherine Orkney. 



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36^ 80NG8 OP BHGI«ANI> AND IKSLAin>. 

O Britain, gxuird with tenderest care 
The charge allotted to your share : 
You've scarce a native maid so fair. 
So food, as Catherine Orkney. 



LOVE'S PHILOSOPHY. 

PEROT BTS8HB SHELLEY. 
Bora ITPS—Died ISSS. 

The fountains mingle with the river. 

And the river with the ocean ; 
The winds of Heaven mix for ever 

Wth a sweet emotion ; 
Nothing in the world is single ; 

All things, by a law divine. 
In another's being mingle ; — 

Why not I with thine i 

See the mountains kiss high Heaven^ 

And the waves clasp one another ! 
No leaf or flower would be forgiven. 

If it disdain'd to kiss its brother ; 
And the sunlight clasps the earth. 

And the moonbeams kiss the sea ; 
What are all those kissings worthy 

If thou km ncM; me ? 



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80NGR OF ENGLAND A^p IRELAND. Q63 



LINES TO AN INPIAN AIR. 

p. p. ^^ELLE]^. 

I ris^ from dreams of thee 

Id the first sweet sleep of night. 
When the winds are breathing low. 

And the stars are shining bright ; 
I rise from dreams of thee. 

And a Spirit in my feet 
Has led me— who knows how ? 

To thy chamber window sweet. 

The wandering airs they faint 

On the dark and silent stream. 
The Ohampak odours fall 

Like sweet thoughts in a dream. 
The nightingale's complaint. 

It dies upon her heart. 
As I must upon thine. 

Beloved as thou art ! 

O lift me from the grass ! 

I die, I faint, I fail ; 
Let thy love in kisses rain 

On my lips and eyelids pale. 
My cheek is cold and white alas ! 

My heart beats loud and fast ; 
Oh ! press it close to thine again. 

Where it will break at last. 



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^64 SONGS OF BHOLAND AND IRELAND. 



TO ELLEN. 
ROBERT SOUTHET. 

Though time has not wreathed 

My temples with snow. 
Though age hath not breathed 

A spell o'er my brow. 
Yet care's withered fingers 

Press on me with pain ; 
The fleeting pulse lingers. 

And lingers in vun. 

The eyes which behold thee. 

Their brightness is flown $ 
The arms which enfold thee. 

Enfeebled are grown : 
And friendship hath left me. 

By fortune estranged ; 
All, all is bereft me, — 

For thou, too, art changed I 

Yes, dark ills have clouded 

The dawning in tears ; 
Adversity shrouded 

By ripening years, 
Life*s path wild and dreary. 

Draws nigh to its close; — 
Heart-broken and weary 

I sigh for repose. 



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SONGB OF ENGLAND AND IRELAND. 265 

The world shall caress thee 

When I cease to be ; 
And suns rise to bless thee 

Which smile not for me : 
And hearts shall adore thee» 

And bend at thy shrine^ 
But none bow before thee 

So truly as mine. 



AN ITALIAN SONG. 
SAMUEL ROGERS. 

Dear is my little nati?e yale» 

The rin^-dove builds and murmurs there. 
Close by my cot she tells her tale 

To every passing villager. 
The squirrel leaps from tree to tree. 
And shells his nuts at liberty. 

In orange-groves and myrtle bowers. 
That breathe a gale of fragrance round, 

I charm the fairy footed hours 
With my loved lute's romantic sound ; 

Or crowns of living laurel weave. 

For those that win the race at eve. 

The shepherd's horn at break of day. 
The ballet danced in twilight glade. 

The canzonet and roundelay 
Sung in the silent green- wood shade; 

-These simple joys, that never fail. 

Shall bind me to my native vale. 



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^66 S0NG8 07 BN6I«AVP A9I> l»SL4ND» 

A WISH. 
SAMUEL SOOBS8, 

Mine be a eot beside the hill i 
A bee-hive's hum shall soothe my ear ; 
A willowy brook, that turn^ a rnill^ 
With many a fall shall linger near. 

The swallow oft beneath my thatch. 
Shall twitter from her clay-built nest ; 
Oft shall the pilgrim lift the latch. 
And share my meal, a welcome guest. 

Around my ivy'd porch shall spring 
Each fragrant flower that drinks the jdew ; 
And Lucy, at her wheel, shall sing 
In russet gown and apron blue. 

The village-church among the trees. 
Where first our marriage-vows were given. 
With merry peals shall swdl the breeze. 
And point with taper spire to heaven. 



A FAREWELL. 
dAMUEL EOaEHS. 

Once more, enchanting maid, adieu I 
I must be gone whijie yet I may. 
Oft shall I weep to think of you ; 
But here I will not, cannot st»y. 



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SONGS OF ENGLAND ANO IBELAND. 967 

The sw^et expreision of that faee. 
For ever changing, yet the same. 
Ah no, I dare not turn to trace. 
It melts my soul, it fires nay frame ! 

Yet give me, give me, ere I go. 
One little lock of those so blest. 
That lend your cheek a warmer glow. 
And on your white neck love to rest. 

— Say, when, to kindle soft delight. 
That hand has chanced with mine to meet. 
How could its thrilling touch excite 
A sigh so short, and yet so sweet } 

O say — but no, it must not be $ 
Adieu ! a long, a long adieu ! 
-»Yet still, m^hinks, you frown on me ; 
Or never could I iy from you. 



TRUE LOVE. 
RICHABD HOWITT. 



Thou art lovelier than the coming 

Of the fairest flowers of spring. 
When the wild bee wanders humming. 

Like a blessed fairy thing ; 
Thou art lovelier than the breaking 

Of the orient crimsonM mom. 
When the gentlest winds are shaking, 

The dewdrops from the thonu* 



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268 SONGS OF BNOLAND AND IRELAND. 

I have seen the wild-flowers springing 

In woody and field, and glen, 
Where a thousand birds were singing. 

And my thoughts were of thee then ; 
For there's nothing gladsome round me. 

Nothing beautiful to see. 
Since thy beauty's spell has bound me. 

But is eloquent of thee. 



SHE IS NOT FAIR? 
HARTLEY COLERIDGE. 

She is not fair to outward view. 

As many maidens be ; 
Her loveliness I never knew 

Until she smiled on me : 
Oh, then I saw her eye was bright — 
A well of love, a spring of light. 

But now her looks are coy and cold. 
To mine they ne'er reply ; 

And yet I cease not to behold. 
The love-light in her eye : 

Her very frowns are better far 

Than smiles of other mudens are ! 



CTliis is a very pretty song, and worthy of the name of ColerldceO 



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BONOS OF BNOLAND AND IREI.AND. 969 

SYLVIA TO ROMANZO. 
GEORGE DARLEY. 

The Streams that wind amid the hills. 

And lost in pleasure slowly roam. 
While their deep joy the valley fills, — 
Ev'n thesfe will leave their mountain-home : 
So may it, love ! with others be. 
But I will never wend from thee. 

The leaf forsakes the parent spray. 

The blossom quits the stem as fast. 
The rose-enamour'd bird will stray 
And leave his eglantine at last ; 
So may it love ! with others be 
But — I .will never wend from thee. 



SYLVIA TO ROMANZO. 
GEORGE DARLEY. 



I've pluck'd the woodbine, and lilac so pale. 
And the sweetest young cowslips that grew in the dale. 
The bud from the flower, and the leaf from the tree. 
To bind a rich garland, young shepherd ! for thee. 

look how the rose blushes deeper with pride. 
And how pretty forget-me-not peeps by its side ; 
How the high-crested pink in brave plumage doth fall. 
And look how the lily looks sweeter than all. 



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1 



270 SONGS OF Biroi«AirD AND IRELAND. 

My beautiful myrtle !^I tlunk thou dost know 
Upon whom this rich garland I mean to bestow ; 
For thou seems't with a voice full of fragrance to sigh— 
" Should I wreath that young shepherd how happy 
were 1 1" 

Come, bend me thy brow, gentle youth I and I'll twine 
Round thy temples so pure this rich garland of mine ; 

thou look'st such a prince ! from this day, from this 

hour, 

1 will call thee nought else but the Lord of my Bower. 



THE QUEEN OF THE MAY. 

GEORGE DARLET. 

Here's a bank with rich cowslips and cuckoo-buds 
strewn. 

To exalt your bright looks, gentle Queen of the May! 
Here's a cushion of moss for your delicate shoon. 

And a woodbine to weave you a canopy gay I 

Here's a garland of red-maiden-roses for you. 
Such a beautiful wreath is for beauty al<me ! 

Here's a golden king-cup, brimming over with dew, 
To be kiss'd by a lip just -as sweet as its own ! 

Here are bracelets of pearl from the fount in the dale. 
That the nymph of the wave on your wrists doth 
bestow ; 

Here's a lily-wrought scarf, your sweet blushes to veil. 
Or to lie on that bosom like toow upon miow. 



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SONGS OF ENGLAND AND IRELAND. 271 

Here's a myrtle ehwreath'd vriih. a jessamine band. 
To express the fond twining^ of beauty and youth ; 

Take this emblem of love ih thy eiquisite hand. 
And do thou sway the etiei'gr'een sceptre of Truth 1 

Then around you well dance; imd ar6Und you we'll 
sing! 
To soft pipe, and sweet tabor we'll foot it away ! 
And the hills, and the vales, and this forests shall ring 
While we hail you our lovely young Queen of the 
May. 



THE CALL. 

GEORGE DARLEY. 

Awake thee, my lady-love I 

Wake thee and rise ! 
Hie sun through the bower peeps 

Into thine eyes ! 

Bdiold how the early lark 

Springs from the corn I 
Hark, hark how the flo^er4>!rd 

Winds her wee horn I 

The siiVallow's glad shriek is heard 

All through the air! 
The stock-dove is murmtirinf 

Loud as she dare I 



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87^ S0NG8 OF ENGLAND AND IRELAND. 

Apollo's wing'd bugleman 

Cannot contain. 
But peals his loud trumpet-call 

Once and again ! 

Then wake thee, my lad^slove ! 

Bird of my bower ! 
The sweetest and sleepiest 

Bird at this hour. 



SONG OF A GREEK ISLANDER IN EXILE. 



MRS. HEMAN8. 



Where is the sea? — I lan^sh here — 

Where is my own blue sea? 
With all its barks of fleet career. 

And flags and breezes free ! 

I miss the voice of waves — ^the first 

That woke my childish glee : 
The measur'd chime, the thundering burst^- 

Where is my own blue sea ? 

Oh ! with your myrtles breath may rise. 

Soft, soft, your winds may be ; 
Yet my sick heart within me dies — 

Where is my own blue sea ? 



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SONGS OF ENGLAND AND IRELAND. 973 

I hear the shepherds mountain flute, 

I hear the whispering tree — 
The echoes of my soul are mute^- 

Where is my own blue sea. 



[" A Onek islander being talsen to tlie Vale of Tempe, and called 
upon to admire its beautifal scenery, replied * Yes, all is fair} bnt 
the sea— where is it' " Mrs. Hemans.] 



ARE OTHER EYES. 



L. E. L. 

Are other eyes beguiling. Love ? 
Are other rose-lips smiling. Love ? 
Ah, heed them not ; you will not find 
Lips more true or eyes more kind, « 
Than mine. Love. 

Are other white arms wreathing, Love ? 
Are other fond sighs breathing. Love } 
Ah, heed them not ; but call to mind 
The arms, the sighs, you leave behind— 
All thine. Love. 

Then gaze not on other eyes. Love ; 
Breathe not other sighs. Love ; 
You may find many a brighter one 
Than your own rose, but there are none 
So true to thee. Love. 

VOL. I. T 



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^74 SONGS OF ENGLAND AND IRELANI^. 

All thine own^ 'mid gladness. Love ; 
Fonder still, 'mid sadness. Love ; 
Though chang'd from all that now thou art. 
In shame and sorrow, still thy heart 
Would be the world to me, Love. 



\ 



TO MARY. 



O Mary, I love thee with purest devotion, 
No passion more holy in mortal can be. 

The wind to the hill, and the wave to the ocean. 
Are true, but not truer— than I am to thee. 

Wherever my footsteps by fancy are taken— 
I hear thee, I see thee, thine image is there. 

Though far from thy bosom my love is unshaken, 
Pm still the true Willy to Mary the fwr. 

Though round me the wild wintry waters are foaming 
And Mary and Heaven are hid from my view. 

My heart and my mind they are never a roaming— 
I know thou art beauteous, believe thou art true. 

Though wafted far from thee, think not thou'rt 
forsaken— 
I pray with the tempest,— send sighs vnth the air- 
But live on believing that distance will waken- 
Even higher love in me for Mary the fwr. 



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SONGS OF ENGLAND AND IRELAND. 27 5 



THE FISHIR'S WELCOME. 
THOMAS DOUBLEDAY. 

We twa hae fish'd the Kale sae clear. 

An' streams o' mossy Reed, 
We've tried the Wansbeck an' the Wear, 

The Teviot an' the Tweed ; 
An' we will try them ance agtun 

When summer siins are fine. 
An' we'll thraw the flie thegither yet 

For the days o' lang syne. 

'Tis mo^y years sin' first we met 

On Coquet's bonny braes. 
An' mony a brither fisher's gane. 

An' clad in his last claes ; 
An' we maun follow wi' the lave. 

Grim Death he heucks us a'. 
But we'll hae anither fishing bout 

Afore we're ta'en awa'. 

For we are hale an' hearty baith, 

Tho' frosty are our pows. 
We still can guide our fishing graith. 

An' climb the dykes and knowes ; 
We'll mount our creels an' grip our gads. 

An thraw a sweeping line ; 
An we'll hae a plash among the lads. 

For the days o' lang syne. 



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976 SONGS OF ENGLAND AND IRELAND. 

The' Cheviot's top be frosty still. 

He's ^een below the knee, 
Sae don your plaid an' tak your gad» 

An' gang awa' m' me. 
Come busk your flies, my auld compeer. 

We're fidgin' a* fu' fain. 
We've fish'd the Coquet mony a year. 

An we'll fish her owre again. 

An' hameward when we toddle back. 

An' night begins to fa'. 
When ilka chiel maun tell his crack. 

We'll crack aboon them a' :«— 
When jugs are toom'd an' coggins wet, 

I'll lay my loof in thine. 
We've shown we're gude at water yet. 

An' we're little warse at wine. 

We'll crack how mony a creel we've fill'd. 

How mony a line we've flung. 
How mony a ged an' sawmon kill'd 

In days when we were young. 
We'll gar the callants a' look blue. 

An' sing anither tune : 
They're bleezing aye o' what they'll do— 

We'll tell them what we've dune. 



[From a Fisher's Garland, published in NewcasUe, about ten or 
eleven years back.] 



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80NG8 OF ENGLAND AND IBELAND. 277 

THE ANGEL*S WHISPER. 
SAMUEL LOVER. 

A baby was sleeping. 

Its mother was weeping. 
For her husband was far on the wild raging sea ; 

And the tempest was swelling 

Ronnd the fisherman's dwelling. 
And she cried, ' Dermot, darling ! Oh, come back 
tome! 

Her beads while she numbered 

The baby still slumber'd. 
And smiled in her face as she bended her knee. 
' Oh, bless'd be that warning. 

My child, thy sleep adorning — 
For I know that the angels are whispering with thee. 

' And while they are keeping 

Bright watch o'er thy sleeping. 
Oh, pray to them softly, my baby, with me — 

And say thou would'st rather 

They'd watch o'er thy father, 
For I know that the angels are whispering with thee.* 

The dawn of the morning 

Saw Dermot returning. 
And the wife wept with joy her babe's father to see ; 

And closely caressing ^ 

Her child with a blessing. 
Said, ' I knew that the angels were whispering with 
thee.' 



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^78 80N06 OF ENGLAND AND ItLEhAHD. 

THE RING AND THE WINDING SHEET. 
SAMUEL LOVER. 

Why sought you not the silent bow'r^ 

The boVr nor hawthorn tree. 
Why came you not at evening hour^ 

Why came you not to me ? 
Say, does that heart beat colder now— 

Oh ! tell me, truly tell— 
Than when you kiss'd my burning brow. 

When last you sdd ' farewell ?' 

As late my taper I illumed. 

To sigh and watch for thee. 
It soon the mystic form assum'd 

Which lovers smile to see ; 
But fondly while I gaz'd upon 

And trimm'd the flame with care. 
The pledge of plighted love was gone — 

The sign of death was there ! 

Oh, say, was this foreboding truth. 

And wilt thou break thy vow. 
And wilt thou blight my opening youth ? 

And must I — must I now 
Meet death's embrace for that chaste kiss. 

That holy kiss you vow'd ? 
And must I for my bridal dress 

Be mantled in the shroud ? 



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\ 



80N0S OF ENGLAND AND IRELAXD. ^79 



A SERENADE. 
BARRY CORNWALL. 

Awake !*-4he starry midnight hour 

Hangs charm'd, and pauseth in its flight : 
In its own sweetness sleeps the flower. 
And the doves lie hushed in. delight ! 
Awake! awake! 
Look forth, my love, for Love's sweet sake ! 

Awake ! — soft dews will soon arise 

From daisied mead, and thorny brake ; 
Then, sweet, uncloud those eastern eyes. 
And like thie tender morning break ! 
Awake! awake! 
Dawn forth, my love, for Love's sweet sake. 

Awake ! — within the musk-rose bower 

I watch* pale flower of love, for thee : 
Ah, come, and shew the starry hour 
What wealth of love thou hid'st from me ! 
Awake ! awake ! 
Shew all thy love, for Love's sweet sake ! 

Awake ! — ^ne'er heed, though listening night 

Steal music from thy silver voice : 
Uncloud thy beauty, rare and bright. 
And bid the world, and me, rejoice ! 
Awake ! awake I 
She comes, — at last, for Love's sweet sake ! 



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t 



^HO «0NO8 OF KNGLAND AND IBELAMD. 

INDIAN LOVE. 
BABBT CORNWALL. 

Tell me not that thou dost love me. 
Though it thrill me mth delight : 

Thou art, like the stars, above me ; 
I — the lowly earth at night. 

Hast thou (Mow from kings descended) 
Loved the Indian cottage-bom ; 

And shall she, whom Love befriended. 
Darken all thy hopeful morn ? 

Go,— and for thy father's glory. 
Wed the blood that's pure and free r 

'Tis enough to gild my story. 
That I once was loved by thee I 



MARIAN. 

BARRY CORNWALL. 
» I 



Spirit of the summer breeze ! 
Wherefore sleep'st thou in the trees? 
Come, and kiss the maiden rose. 
That on Marian's bosom blows ! 



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SONGS OF ENGLAND AND IRELAND. 281 

Gome and fawn about her hair ! 

Kiss the fringes of her eyes ! 
Ask her why she looks so fair. 

When she heedeth not my sighs ? 

Tell her, murmuring summer air. 

That her beauty's all untrue ; 
Tell her, she should not seem fair 

Unless she be gentle too ! 



IS MY LOVER ON THE SEA ? 
BARRT CORNWALL. 

Is my lover on the sea. 
Sailing east or sailing west ? 

Nightly ocean, gentle be. 
Rock him into rest I 

Let no angry wind arise. 

Nor a wave with whitened crest : 
All be gentle as his eyes 

When he is caressed ! 

Bear him (as the breeze above 
Bears the bird unto its nest,) 

Here, — ^unto his home of love. 
And there bid him rest ! 



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282 80K0S OF ENGLAND AND lEELAND. 



A DRINKING SONG. 
BARRY CORNWALL, 

Drink, and fill the night with mirth ! 

Let us have a mighty measure. 
Till we quite forget the earth. 

And soar into the world of pleasure. 
Drink, and let a health go round, 

("Hs the drinker's noble duty,) 
To the eyes that shine and wound. 

To the mouths that bud in beauty I 

Here's to Helen ! why, ah ! why 

Doth she fly from my pursuing ? 
Here's to Marian, cold and shy ! 

May she warm before thy wooing ! 
Here's to Janet ! I've been e'er. 

Boy and man, her staunch defender. 
Always sworn that she was fair. 

Always known that she was tender ! 

Fill the deep-mouthed glasses high 

Let them mth the champaign tremble. 
Like the loose wrack in the sky. 

When the four wild winds assemble ! 
Here's to all the love on earth, 

(Love, the young man's, wise man's treasure !) 
Drink, and fill your throats with mirth ! 

Drink, and drown the world in pleasure ! 



1 

'it 



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SONGS OF ENOLANP AND IRELAND. 283 



THE RECALL. 
BARRY CORNWALL. 

Come again I come again ! 

Sunshine cometh after rain. 

As a lamp fed newly burneth^ 

Pleasure, who doth fly, retumeth. 

Scattering every cloud of pain. 

As the year, which dies in showers, 

Riseth in a world of flowers, 

Call'd by many a vernal strain. 

Come thou,^f or whom tears were falling, 

And a thousand tongues are calling ! 

Come again, O come again. 

Like the sunshine after rain. 



DRINKING SONG. 

Pour around the sparkling wine. 
Quaff the bowl of juicy grape. 

Give the fair ones face divine 
Beauty, majesty, and shape. 

Wine it is the milk of Venus, 

Honour then the queen of love- 
Beauty in your bosom screen us. 
While your coral teat we prove. 



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284 80NOS OF ENGLAND AND IRELAND. 

Who but loves a rosy lip, 

Moisten'd with the morning dew- 
Such a lip where bees would sip- 
Were they blest like those that do. 



I 



Who but loves a boundless i 
Where the hone/d milk is rife. 

In the fair will find agree. 
All the nectar'd sweets of life. 

Drain — ah then the sparkling bowl. 
To the fair one whom you love. 

Knit with her in heart and soul, 
Joy shall round your circle move I 



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APPENDIX. 



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A 



APPENDIX. 



See pag^e 6. 



The copy here given of Marlowe's Son^, is printed 
from England's Helicon, 1600; the letters W. E. P. & 
R., specify the variations as printed by Isaak Walton, 
George Ellis, Bishop Percy, and Ritson. 



THE PASSIONATE SHEPHERD. 

Come live with me, and be my love. 
And we will all the pleasures prove. 
That vallies, groves,* hills and fields. 
Woods, or steeple mountaines yields. 

Andf we will sit vpon the rockes. 
Seeing^ the shepheards feede their flockes§ 
By shallow riuers, to whose falls 
Melodious birds sings || madrigalls. 



* That hills and valleys, dale and field. 
And all the craggry mountains yield.— Ellis and Percy. 
That vallies, groves or hills and fields. 
And all the steepy monntain yields.— Ritson. 
That valleys, groves, or hills or field. 
Or woods, and steepy mountains yield.— Walton. 

t There, E. & P. Where, Walton. t And see, E. & P. & W. 

I Our, W. I Sing, R. E. & P. 



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288 APPENDIX. 

And I will* make thee beds of roses, 
Andf a thousand fragrant poesies, 
A cap of flowers and a kirtle 
' Imbroydered all with leaves of mirtle. 

A gowne made of the finest wooll. 
Which from our pretty lambs we pull; 
Fure lined slippers^ for the cold. 
With buckles of the purest gold : 

A belt of straw and iuie buds. 
With corall clasps and amber studs. 
And if these pleasures may thee moue, 
Come§ live with me and be my loue.|| 

The Shepheard swaines shall dance and sing 
For thy delights IF each May-morning ; 
If these delights thy mind may moue. 
Then Hue with me and be my loue. 

Finis. Chr. Marlow. 



* There viUI, E. & P. t With. E. & P. Walton has. and 

' there " a thousand. t Slippers lined choicely, E. & P. & W. 

4 Then, E. & P. | Here Isaak Walton adds this itanza :» 

Thy silyer dishes for thy meat, 

As precious as the Gods do eat, 

Shall on an iyory table be, 

Prepar*d each day for thee and me. 
H DeUght,R.E.P. &W. 



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APPENDIX^ 289 

THE NYMPH'S REPLY TO THE SHEPHERD. 
FROM " ENGLAND'S HELICON," I6OO. 

If all * the world and loue were young. 
And truth in every Shepheards tongue. 
These pretty pleasures might me moue 
To live with thee and be thy loue. 

Time drives the flocks from field to foldf 
The riuers rage and rockes grow cold. 
And Philomellt becometh dombe 
The rest§ complaines of cares to come. 

The flowers doe fade and wanton fields 
To way^vard winter reckoning yeelds 
A hony tongue a heart of gall. 
Is fancies spring, but sorrowes fall. 

Thy gownes, thy shooes, thy beds of roses, 
Thy cap, thy kirtle and thy posies, 
Soone break, soone wither, soone forgotten. 
In .folly ripe, in reason rotten. 

Thy belt of straw, and iuie buds. 
Thy corall clasps, and amber studs. 
All these in me no meanes can moue 
To ^come to thee, and be thy loue. || 

* If that, p. t But time drives flocks from field to fold, W. & P. 

t Then, W. § And age, W. And all complain, P. 

I Here Isaak Walton adds this verse :— 1 

What should we talk of dainties then, 
Of better meat than's fit for men ? 
These are bat vain : that's only good 
Which God hath blest, and sent for food. 
VOL. I. U 

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290 APPENDIX. 

But could youth last, and love still breede. 
Had joyes do date, had* age no mede. 
Then those delights my mind might moue. 
To live with thee and be thy loue. 

Finis. Ionoto. 



See p. 70. 

The idea of Herrick's beautiful Song " To the 
Virgins to make much of Time/' the Editor has stated 
is taken from Spenser. Since then he has found that 
the hint may have been just as likely taken from the 
following passage in Tasso's Jerusalem, thus translated 
by Fairfax. 

The joyous birds, hid under green-wood shade. 
Sung merry notes on every branch and bough. 
The wind, that in the leaves and waters play'd. 
With murmurs sweet now sung, and whistled now : 
Ceased the birds, the wind loud answer made. 
And while they sung, it rumbled soft and low ; 
Thus, were it hap or cunning, chance or art. 
The wind in this strange music bore it's part. 

* A wondrous bird vnth party coloured plumes,' sung 
this love lay : 

The gentle budding rose, quoth she, behold. 
That first scant peeping forth with virgin beams. 
Half ope, half shut, her beauties doth unfold 
In it's fair leaves, and, less seen, fairer seems, 

♦ Nor, W. 



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J 



APPENDIX. ^9 1 

And after spreads tlicm forth more broad and bold. 
Then languisheth^ and dies in last extremes ; 

Nor seems the same, that decked bed and bow'r 

Of many a lady late, and paramour. 

So, in the passing of a day, doth pass 
The bud and blossom of the life of man. 
Nor ere doth flourish more ; but, like the grass 
Cut down, becometh wither'd, pale, jmd wan : 
Oh^ gather then the rose^ while time thou hast; - 
Short is the day, done when it scant began ; 
Gather the rose of love, while yet thou mayst 
Loving be lov'd, embracing be embraced, 
i 

She ceas'd ; and as approving all she spoke. 
The choir of birds their heavenly tunes renew, &c. 
B. XVI. verses 12 to 16. 



Spenser is well known to have translated and trans- 
ferred into his Faerie Queene many of Tasso's most 
beautiful passages ; the following lines from the Bower 
of Bliss, Fairfax had before him when he rendered the 
quotation just given : — 

The ioyous birdes, shrouded in chearefull shade, 
Their notes unto the voice attempred sweete ; 
Th' angelicall soft trembling voyces made 
To th' instruments divine respoadence meet ; 
The silver-sounding instruments did meet 
With the base murmure of the waters fall ; 
The waters fall with difference discreet. 
Now soft, now loud, unto the wind did caU ; 
The gentle warbling wind low answered to all. 



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292 APPENDIX. 

Here, where this delightful music was heard, the 
* fair witch Acrasia/ was solacing herself with a new- 
lover, — she engaged in " wanton joys," — 

The whiles some one did chaunt this lovely lay 
' Ah ! see, whoso fajrre thing doest faine to see. 
In springing flowre the image of thy day ! 
Ah ! see the virgin rose, how sweetly shee ^ 
Doth first peepe foorth with bashfull modestee. 
That fairer seemes the lesse ye see her may ! 
Lo ! see soone after how more bold and fi-ee 
Her bared bosome she doth broad display ; 
Lo ! see soone after how she fades and falls away. 

So passeth, in the passing of a day. 

Of mortall life, the leafe, the bud, the flowre ; 

Ne more doth flourish after first decay. 

That erst was sought to deck both bed and bowre 

Of many a lady, and many a paramoure ! 

Gather therefore the rose whilest yet is prime. 

For soone comes age that will her pride deflawre : 

Gather the rose of love whilest yet is time, 

Whilest loving thou mayst loved be with equail crime. 

He ceast ; and then gan all the quire of birdes 
Their diverse notes t' attune unto his lay, &c.&c. 
Faerie Queene, B. 2, Can. xii. ver. 71 to 76. 

Spensers Faerie Queene was printed only a few years 
previous to the Tasso of Fairfax. 



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APPRXDIX. 293 



LOVE. 



BEN JONSON* 



Though I am young and cannot tell 
Either what Death, or Love, is well. 
Yet I have heard they both bear darts. 
And both do aim at human hearts : 
And then again, I have been told. 
Love wounds with heat, as Death with cold ; 
So that I fear they do but bring 
Extremes to touch and mean one thing, 

As .in a ruin we it call 
One thing to be blown up, or fall ; 
Or to our end, like way may have. 
By flash of lightning, or a wave j 
So Love's inflamed shaft or brand 
May killas soon as Death's cold hand. 
Except Love's fires the virtue have 
To fright the frost out of the grave. 



[Sung by Karolin in the Sad Shepherd.] 



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294 APPENDIX. 



THE TRIUMPH OF CHARTS. 



BEN JONSON. 

See the chariot at hand here of Love, 

Wherein my Lady rideth ! 
Each that draws is a swan or a dove> 

And well the car Love guideth. 
As she goes, all hearts do duty 

Unto her beauty ; 
And enanK>ur'd, do wish, so they might 

But enjoy such a sight. 
That they still were to run by her side. 
Through swords, through seas, whither she woukl ride. 

Do but look on her eyes, they do light 

All that Love's world compriseth ! 
Do but look on her hair it is bright 

As Love's star when it riseth ! 
Do but mark, her forehead's smoother 

Than words that sooth her : 
And from her arched brows, »uch a grace 

Sheds itself thro' her face. 
As alone there triumphs to the life 
All the gain, all the good of the elements strife. 

Have you seen but a bright lily grow. 

Before rude hands have touch'd'it ? 
Have you mark'd but the fall of the snow 

Before the soil hath smutch'd it ^ 



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APPENDIX. ^U5 



Have you felt the wool of the bever ? 

Or swan's down ever ? 
Or have smelt o' the bud of the briar ? 

Or the nard in the fire ? 
Or have tasted the bag of the bee ? 
O so white ! O so soft ! O so sweet is she ! 



BEGGING ANOTHER KISS. 
BEN JONSON. 

For love's sake, kiss me once again, 
I long, — and should not beg in vain. 

Here's none to spy, or see ; 
Why do you doubt or stay ? 

I'll taste as lightly as the bee. 
That doth but touch his flower and flies away. 

Once more, and, faith, I will be gone. 
Can he that loves ask less than one ? 

Nay, you may err in this. 
And all your bounty wrong : 

This could be called but half a kiss ; 
What we're but once to do, we should do long. 

I will but mend the last, and tell 
Where, how, it would have relished well ; 

Join lip to lip, and try. 

Each suck the others breath. 

And whilst our tongues perplexed lie. 
Let who wilk think us dead, or wish our death 



[From the Celebration of Charls.] 



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^96 



APPENDIX. 



GO, TELL AMYNTA. 



JOHN DRYDEN. 



1 . ^ 



Go, tell Amynta, gentle swain, 

would not file, nor dare compliun ; 
Thy tuneful voice with numbers join. 
Thy voice will more prevail than mine ; 
For souls oppressed, and dumb with grief. 
The Gods ordain'd this kind relief. 
That music should in sounds convey 
What dying lovers dare not say. 

A sigh, or tear, perhaps, she'll give. 
But love on pity cannot live. 
Tell her, that hearts for hearts were made. 
And love with love is only paid. 
TeU her, my pains so fast encrease. 
That soon they will be past redress ; 
For ah ! the wretch that speechless lies. 
Attends but death to close his eyes. 



ADDRESS TO BRITAIN. 
JOHN DRYDEN. 

Fairest isle, all isles excelling. 
Seat of pleasure and of love, 

Venus here will choose her dwelling. 
And forsake her Cyprian grove. 



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1 



APPENDIX. 297 

Cupid, from his fav'rite nation. 

Care and envy will remove. 
Jealousy that poisons passion. 

And despair that dies for love. 

Gentle murmurs, sweet complaining. 

Sighs that blow the fire of love. 
Soft repulses, kind disdaining. 

Shall be all the pains you prove. 

Every swain shall pay his duty. 
Grateful every nymph shall prove ; 

And as these excel in beauty. 
Those shall be renowned for love. 



LOVE IN WORD AND ACTION. 

APHRA BEHN. 

'Tia not your saying that you love. 

Can ease me of my smart : 
Your actions must your words approve 

Or else you break my heart. 

In vain you bid my passion cease. 
And ease my troubled breast. 

Your love alone must give me peace. 
Restore my wonted rest. 

But if I fail your heart to move. 

And 'tis not yours to give, 
I cannot, will not cease to love. 

But I will cease to live. 



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^S APPENDIX. 

PHILLIS. 
SIR GEORGE ETHEREGE. 

When PhiUis watch'd her harmless sheep 
Not one poor lamb was made a prey ; 
Yet she had cause enough to weep. 

Her silly heart did go astray. 
Then flying to the neighbouring grove. 
She left the tender flock to rove. 
And to the winds did breathe her love. 
She sought in vain 
To ease her pain ; 
The heedless winds did fan her fire ; 
Venting her grief. 
Gave no relief. 
But rather did increase desire, 
Then sitting with her arms across. 

Her sorrows streaming from each eye ; 
She fixM her thoughts upon her loss. 
And in despair resolv'd to die. 



[In the Comedy of " Love in a Tub."] 
TO A LADY READING SHERLOCK UPON DEATH. 

LORD CHESTERFIELD. 

Mistaken fair, lay Sherlock by. 

His doctrine is deceiving. 
For whilst he teaches us to die. 

He cheats us of our living. 



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APPENDIX. '290 

To die's a lesson we shall know. 

Too soon without a master ; 
Then let us only study now 

How we may live the faster. 

To live's to love, to bless be blest. 

With mutual inclination ; 
Share then my ardour in your breast. 

And kindly meet my passion. 

But if thus blest, I may not live. 

And pity you deny. 
To me at least your Sherlock give, 

'Tis I must learn to die. 



LOUISA'S LIP. 



DAVID OARRICK. 

For me my fair a wreath bias wove 
Where rival flowers in union meet. 

As oft she kiss'd this gift of love. 
Her breath gave sweetness to the sweet. 

A bee within a damask rose 
Had crept the nectar'd dew to sip. 

But lesser sweets the thief foregoes. 
And fixes on Louisa's lip. 



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* 
y 

300 APPENDIX. 

There tasting all the bloom of Spring, ^ 

Wak'd by the ripening breath of May, * 

Th' ungrateful spoiler left his sting. 
And with the honey fled away. 



[This is imitated we are told from a Spanish Madrigal. Garrick 
wrote many songs, bat they have little merit to recommend them. I 



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LIST OF AUTHORS. 



A. 





Pajrc 


Akenside 


. 210 


B., 




Barbauld 


. 324 


Beaumont. Francis 


. 45 


Bebn, Aphra 


105 fc 297 


Booth, Barton 


. IGI 


Breton, Nicholas . 


. 17 


Brome, Alexander 


. 9d 


Brown, Tom 


. 149 


Blown e, William . 


. 68 


Buckingham, Duke of 


' . isfg 


Byron 


. 253 


c. 




Carew 


. 79 


Carey, Harry 


. 172 


Chalkhill, John 


. 2S 


Chatterton 


. 230 


Chesterfield 


. 298 


Coleridge, S. T. 


. 260 


Coleridge, Hartley, 


. 368 


CoUlna . 


. 208 


Congreve 


. 141 


Cornwall, Barry 


. 379 


Cotton, Charles 


. 106 


Cowper 


. 330 


Cunningham, John 


- 314 



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302 



LIST OF AUTHORS. 



D. 





Page 


Darley, George 


. 269 


Davison, Francis 


. 53 


Dibdin 


. 234 


Dodsley, Robert 


. 200 


Donne 


30 


Dorset, Lord 


. 117 


Doubleday, Thomas, 


. 275 


Dryden 


107 & 206 


D*Urfey, Tom 


,142 



E. 



Etherege, Sir George 



114 & 298 



F. 



Fletcher, John 
Ford, John 



45 
54 



G. 



Garrick .... 


299 


Gay ... . 


163 


GifTord, Hamfrey 


13 


Goldsmith 


213 


Grant, Dr. ... 


193 


Greene, Robert 


19 


Grerille, Folke 


15 



H. 



Harrington, John 


13 


Heath, Robert 


. 101 


Hemans 


. 272 


Hcrrick . 


. 69 


Heywood, Thomas . 


44 


HUl, Aaron 


. 194 


Hoare, Prince 


. 250 


Howitt, Richard . 


. 367 



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,L18T OF AUTHORS. 



303 



Jonson, Ben 
Johnson, Sam. 



King, Henry 
Kynaston, Sir Francis 



J. 



K. 



Paire 

31 & 298 

. 205 



73 
97 



Lamb • 
L. E. L. . 
Lewis, M. 6. 
Lovelace 
Lover, Samuel 
Lrlie, John 
Lyttelton 



M. 



Marlowe, Kit 
May, Thomas 
Montagu, Lady M. W. 



o. 



261 
273 
237 

91 
277 

)4 
202 



5 

79 
190 



Cytway 



Pamell . 




. 357 


Perpy . 




. 211 


Philips, Ambrose * 




. 139 


Pope 




.160 


Prior 


R. 


.134 


Raleiffh . 




. 6 


Rochester, Lord 




. 125 


Rogers 


. 


. 266 


Roscommon, Lord 


. 


. 116 


Rowe 




• • 165 



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304 



LIST or AUTHORS. 









Page 


SeUlcy, Sir Charles 




121 


Shakspeare 




20 


Shelley . 






962 


Sheostone 




* 


206 


Sheridan 






226 


Shirley . 






77 


Somerville 






198 


Southeme 






131 


Soathey 






264 


Stanley, Thomas 






100 


Stevens, G. A. 






231 


Stm, Bishop 






1 


Suckling, Sir John 




95 


Swift 


', '. .160 


T. 




Turnbull 




, 


244 



Vanbrugh, Sir John 



w. 



Waller 




. 86 


Walsh, William 




. 183 


Walton, Isaak 




• 74 


Wharton, Anne 




. 182 


White, Kirke 


» 


. 348 


Whitehead, William 


. 304 


Williams, H. M. . 




. 341 


Wither, George 




. 5S 


Wolcot ; 




. 228 


Wotton, Sir Henry 




. 27 



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INDEX 



OF THE FIRST LINES. 



A. 

A baby was sleeping 
A choir of bright beauties 
Adiea ! my native land adien 1 
Ah ! Evan by thy winding stream 
Ah, bright Belinda hither fly 
Ah Chloris I that I now could sit 
Ah, ope, Lord Gregory, thy door 
All in the Downs the fleet was moor'd 
All the materials are the same 
A lass there lives upon the green 
Are other eyes beguiling. Love ? 
As at noon Dnlcina rested 
As beautiful Kitty one morning was tripping 
As I walk'd forth one summer's day . 
As near a fountain's cooling side 
As o'er Asterias flelds I ro^ 
Ask me no more where Jove bestows 
Ask me why I send you here 
Ask not why sorrow shades my brow 
Ask not the cause why sullen spring 
A wandering gypsy. Sir, am I 
Awake thee, my lady love ! 
Awake! the starry midnight hour 
Away J let nought to love displeasing 
Away with these self -loving lads 
A woman's face is fuU of wilee 
VOL, I. X 



Page 

. vn 

. 192 

. 252 

. 242 

. 188 

. 122 

. 221 

. 169 

. 52 

. 132 

. 273 

. 103 

. 247 

. 152 

. 184 

. 198 

. 80 
84 

. 106 

. 107 

. 222 

. 271 

. 279 

. 153 

. 15 

, 13 



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306 



I N D B X. 



B. 

Bacchus m«8t now his power naign 
Be hosh'd, be hnsh'd, ye bitter winds 
Bid me to Uve, and I wiU live 
Blest as the immortal gods is he 
Bright Cynthia's power divinely great 

C. 

Canadia, boast no more the toils 

Care, thon canker of all Joys 

Cease, rude Boreas, blustering railer 

Celia, let not pride undo yon 

Chloe found Amyntas lying 

Chloris! farewell; I now must go . 

Choose me your Valentine 

Come again! come again I 

Come all ye youths whose hearts e'er bled 

Come all you jolly sailors bold 

Come, Anna, come I the morning dawns 

Come Chloris hie we to the bower . 

Come, Cynthia to thy shepherd's vale 

Come, follow, follow me 

Come, let us now resolve at last 

Come live with me and be my love IMarlowe] 

Come live with me and be my dear IRaMgh] 

Come live with me and be my love IDonne] 

Come, my Celia, let us prove 

Come on, Come on \ and where you go 

Crabbed age and youth 

Gruel Creature can you leave me 

Cupid no more shall give me grief 

D. 

Dear Colin prevent my warm blushes 
Dear, do not you fiedr beauty wrong 
Dear is my little native vale 
Dearest, do not you delay me 
Despairing beside a clear stream 
Do not conceal thy radiant eyes 
Drink, and fill the night with mirth >. 
Drink to-day and drown all sorrow . 
Drink to me only vrith thine eyes 



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INDEX. 



307 



F. 

Fair, and soft, and gay and yoongr . 

Fairest isle, all isles excelling 

False though she be to me and love 

Flattering spread thy parple pinion 

Follow a shadow, it stUl flies yoa 

For Love's sake kiss me once again 

For me my fair a wreath has wove . 

From all uneasy Passions free 

From Oberon, in fairye land 

From the court to the cottage convey me away 



Page 

. 190 

. 296 

. 141 

.. 160 

. 35 

. 295 

. 299 

. 129 

. 38 

. 181 



o. 

Gather ye rosebuds, while ye may . 

Gazing on my idol treasure 

Give me more love, or more ^Usdain 

Go, levely Rose 

Good madam when ladles are willing 

Go, rose, my Chloe's bosom grace 

Go tell Amynta gentle swain 



69 
179 

82 

87 
197 
168 
296 



H. 

Had I a heart for falsehood framed 

Happy and free, securely blest 

Hark, hark I the lark at Heaven's gate sings 

Hence away, thou syren, leave me 

Here's a bank with rich cowslips and cuckoo bads 

Her eyes are like the morning bright 

He that loves a rosy cheek 

How happy is he bom or taught 

How hardly I conceal'd my tears 

How pleas'd within my native bowers 



226 

108 

23 

60 

270 

148 

79 
29 

182 
207 



I. 



I cannot change as others do 

1 cannot eat but little meat 

If all the world and love were young 

If love be life, I long to die 

If wine and music have the power 

I have been in love, in debt, and in drink 



125 

1 
6 

53 
134 

99 



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308 



INDEX. 



I in these flowery meads would be 

1*11 range around the shady bowers . 

I lik»d bat never lov'd before 

I lov*d a lass, a fair one 

I never saw her face till now 

In vain you tell your parting lover . 

Invest my head with fragrant rose . 

In Time we see the silver drops 

In the merrie month of May 

I prythee send me back my heart 

I prythee leave this peevish fatdiion . 

I rise from dreams of thee . 

I saird from the Downs in the Nancy 

Is my lover on the sea 

I smile at love and all his arts 

I speak not, I trace not, I breathe not thy name 

It is not that I love you less 

It is not beauty I demand 

I told my nymph, I told her true 

I've pluck'd the woodbine and lilac so pale 



Page 

75 

180 

246 

55 

120 

134 

101 

19 

17 

96 

98 

263 

234 

281 

138 

259 

90 

85 

206 

269 



J. 



Jolly mortals, fill your glasses 



147 



K. 

Keep on your mask and hide your eye 

Kind relief ifi all my pain 

Know Celia since thou art so proud 

Know ye the land where the cypress and myrtle 



75 
199 

81 
257 



Lay a garland on my hearse 
Let bards elate 

Let fools great Capid*s yoke disdain 
Let me wander where I will 
Let perjur'd, fair Amynta know 
Let soldiers fight for prey or praise 
Let the waiter bring clean glasses 
Like May in all her youthful dress 
Love in fantastic triumph sat 



. 48 

. 236 

. 49 

. 244 

. 135 

. 145 

. 191 

. 150 

. 105 



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309 



M. 

Maid of my Love, sweet Genevieve 
Merciless love, whom Nature hath denied 
Mine be a cot beside the hill 
Mistaken fsdi, lay Sherlock by 
My days have been so wondrous free 
My goddess Lydia, heavenly fair 



Page 

. 260 

. 47 

. 266 

. 298 

. 157 

. 126 



N. 

No longer. Daphne I admire 

No more shall meads be deck'd with flowers 

Not, Celia, that I j aster am 

Not the soft sighs of vernal gales 



217 
83 

123 
205 



0. 

Of all the girls that are so smart 

Of all the torments all the pains 

O for a bowl of fat Canary . 

O forbear to bid me slight her 

Oh 1 do not wanton with those eyes 

O had my love ne*er smiled on me 

Oh let me grow onto those lips 

Oh ! the sweet contentment 

Oh never talk again to me . 

Oh ! the moment was sad when my love and 

Oh! what a plague is love . 

On the waves the wind was sleeping 

O Mary, I love thee with purest devotion 

O Nancy, wilt thou go with me 

On a bank beside a willow . 

On Belvidera's bosom lying 

Once more Love's mighty charms are broke 

One kind kiss before we part 

On Richmond Hill there lives a lass 

Once more, enchanting maid, adieu 1 

Opening buds began to shew 

Orpheus, with his lute made trees 

Over the mountains ... 



parted 



172 

183 
14 

36 

229 

218 

25 

253 

246 

63 

240 

274 

211 

HI 

140 

121 

200 

159 

266 

144 

23 

50 



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310 



IN D E X. 



Pack cknids away, and welcome daj 
Pleasures, beauty, youth attend ye . 
Poor Chloris wept, and from her eyes 
Poor around the sparkling wine 



• 44 
, 64 

. 109 



Rail no more ye learned asses 



-V- 



S. 



Saw you the nymph whom I adore 

Say, Myra, why is gentle lore 

Says my unde, " I pray you disooyer** 

See how f&ir Corinna lies 

See, see she wakes, Sabina wakes 

See the chariot at hand here of Love 

Shall Ilike a hermit dweU . 

Shall I wasting in despair . 

She is not f&ir to outward view 

She walks in beauty, like the night 

Since sounding drums and rising war 

Since truth has left the shepherd's tongue 

Slow spreads the gloom my soul desires 

Spirit of the summer breeze 

StUl to be neat, stiUto be drest 

Sweet are the charms of her I love 



191 



177 
2M9 
165 

lis 

142 

894 

9 

59 
S68 
855 
195 
9SS 
841 
880 

S3 
161 



Tiike, oh take those lips away 

Tell me dearest what is love i 

Tell me no more how fair she is 

Tell me not sweet I am unkind 

Tell me not of a f&ce that's fair 

Tell me not that thou dost love me 

That which her slender waist confined 

The Assyrian came down Uke the wolf in the fold 

The danger is over, the battle is past 

The flame of love assuages 

The fountains mingle with the river 

The gentle swan with graceful pride 



80 
45 

78 
92 
99 
880 
86 
856 
131 
176 
968 
816 



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INDEX. 



311 



The glories of our blood and jitate 

llie groves, the plains 

The heavy hoars are almost pass'd . 

The kiss, dear maid 1 thy lip has left 

The larks awake the drowsy mom 

The lovely Delia smiles again 

The pride oi every grove I chose 

The rose had been wash*d, Just wash*d in a shower 

The shape alone let others prize 

The silver moon's enamonr'd beam . 

The son was sank beneath the Ull 

The streams that wind amid the hills 

The world was hosh'd and nature lay 

The wretch condeinn'd with life to part 

niink not my love when secret grief 

Thoa canst not boast of fortane's store 

Tlioa sweetest minstrel of the grove 

Thoagfa cruel you seem to my pain . 

Thoagh I'am yoang and cannot tell 

Though time has not wreathed 

Thou art lovelier than the coming 

Thyrsis, unjustly you complain 

*Tis evening, my sweet 

'TIS mirth that fills the veins with blood 

TIs not your saying that you love 

*Tis not the liquid brightness of those eyes 

To all you ladies now at land 

To be gazing on those charms 

To charming Celia's arms I flew 

To fair Fldele's grassy tomb 

To Fftnny fair could I impart 

To the brook and the willew that heard him complain 

•Twas on a summer's evening 

'Twas when the seas were roaring . 

Turn, lovely Owen, be good and kind 



. 178 

. SOS 

. SS8 

. 14S 

. SOS 

. 137 

. sso 

. 810 

. SU 

. 171 

. 8«» 

. 148 

. 314 

. SS8 

. 237 

. 345 

. 175 

. 393 

. 364 

. 867 

. 135 

70 

49 

397 

. 189 

117 

175 

149 

308 

301 

186 

319 

163 

330 



u. 



Upbraid me not, capridons fttir 



V. 



Vainly now ye strive to charm me 
Vulcan contrive me such a cap 



186 



194 
127 



Digitized by CjOOQ IC 



312 



I N D B X. 



W. 

We all to conqaeriog beauty bow 

We twa hae liBh'd the Kale, sae clear 

Welcome, welcome, do I sing 

What is war and all its Joys 

What jost excuse had aged Time 

What state of life can be so blest 

Whence comes my loye ? O heart disclose 

When daisies pied, and violets bine . 

When, dearest beanty, thon shalt pay 

When Delia on the plain appears 

When first, in all thy youthful charms 

When first I saw thee graceful move 

When first upon your tender cheek . 

When forc'd to quit his native land . 

When icicles hang by the wall 

When innocence and beauty meet 

When love with unconfined wings . 

When lovdy woman stoops to folly 

When PhcBbus heard lanthe sing 

When Phillis watch'd her harmless sheep 

When sable night, each drooping plant restoring 

When thy beauty appears . 

Wherever I am, and whatever I do 

Where is the sea I languish here 

WhUe I listen to thy voice 

WhUe the lover is thinking 

Whilst on those lovely looks I gaze 

Whilst others proclaim 

Who is Silvia ? what is she 

Why do yon dwell so long in clouds 

Why does the morn in blushes rise 

Why fair maid in every feature 

Why should you swear I am forsworn 

Why so pale and wan, fond lover ? 

Why sought you not the silent bower 

Why we love, and why we hate 

Willy found Malvina mourning 

Winter, thy cruelty extend 

With an honest old friend and a merry old song 

Woodmen, shepherds, come away 

Wrong not sweet mistress of my heart 



. 185 
. 875 
. 68 
. 830 

35 
. 113 

13 
. 20 
. 100 
. 908 
. 110 
.-^ 
. 234 
. 239 

21 
. 151 
. 91 
. 213 
. 196 
. 298 
. 227 
. 158 
109 
. 272 
. 80 
. 146 
. 128 
. 137 

22 
. 78 
. 147 
. 237 
. 98 
. 95 
. 278 
. 141 
. 252 
. 116 
. 177 
. 77 
. U 



Digitized by CjOOQ IC 



313 



Ye flowers that bloom in yonder mead 
Ye happy swains whose hearts are free 
Yes I'm in love I feel it now 
You may use common shepherds so 
You meaner beauties of the night 
Youth's the season made for joys 



Page 

. 236 

. 114 

204 

. m 
. 27 
. 167 



KND OF VOLUME I. 



LONDON : PRINTED BY W. NICOL, 51, PALL MALL. 



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Digitized by CjOOQ IC 



PREPARING FOR PUBLICATION. 

THE LIVES 

OFTHB 

BRITISH POETS, 

FROM CHAUCER TO COLERIDGE. 
BY ALLAN CUNNINGHAM. 



Each volume to be illustrated with foor or Ave finely engraved heads 
of popular poets, after the most authentic pictures; to be published 
periodically, and to eqoal in external elegance the late beantifnl editions 
of Byron, Scott, Crabbe, and Burns. 

For this work the author has been long collecting materials. Ottr 
poetical biography is incomplete ; the valuable biographies of Johnson 
come down but to the days of Gray and Collins, and reach no farther 
bacit than Cowley. We want Chancer, Sacltville, Spenser, Shaliespeare, 
and JonsoD, among the elder chieCs of song, and Goldsmith, Chatterton, 
Cowper, Burns, Byron, Shelley, Scott, Crabbe, and Coleridge, among 
the masters of later times. The biographies of Johnson will be in* 
eluded, with notes and additions, and it is proposed to admit King 
James, Gawin Douglas, Dnnbar, Henrysoun, and Lyudsay, into that 
duk period in Soutliem song, which nearly extends from Chancer to 
Spenser, and thus render the history of our poetic literature complete. 

A work of this character and extent requires much study and re- 
'search. The author will endeavour to make it acceptable to the public 
by simplicity of narrative, a style calm and clear, and criticism founded 
in Nature. He is promised aid from several eminent individuals : and, 
as he experienced in his Life of Burns, and Lives of the British 
Painters and Sculptors, much unlooked for kindness flrom strangers as 
well as friends, he hopes that similar sources of intelligence will be 
opened to him for the present undertaking, and that Letters and Anec 
dotes, and the sayings of the Sons of Song, with whatever throws light 
on their ways of life and modes of study, will be submitted to his con- 
sideration by all who feel interest in the History of Poetic Genius. 

27, Belgrave Place, April, 1835. 



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ALLAN CUNNINGHAMS 
EDITION OF BURNS, 

Uniform with thepoputar Serie» of the Works of Byron, and Scott. 

This day is published, and may be had of erery Bookseller in Great 
Britain aod Ireland, complete in 8 vols. Price S<. each. 

THE LIFE AND WORKS 

OF 

ROBERT BURNS, 

BY ALLAN CUNNINGHAM. 

Containing, in addition, nearly Two Hundred New Songs, Poems, 
Letters, &c. never before published. 

Embkllishmknts. 



Portrait of Bums— from the origi- 
nal and only authentic likeness, 
taken in 1787, by Alexander 
Nasmyth. Engraved by W. C. 
Edwards. 

The Birth-place of Bums— painted 
by the late T. Stothard, Esq. 
R. A.—R. Brandard. 

The Braes of Ballochmyle.— TT. 
J. Cooke. 

Ayr—W. MUler. 

Lincluden College.—/. Outhwaite. 

Monument on the Banks of Doon 
— R. Graves, 

The Field of Bannockburn— J5. 
Goodall. 



Tfitymouth Castle, Breadalbane — 
R. Brandard. 

The Birks of Aberfeidy— A . Bran- 
dard. 

Nlthsdale— TF. J. Cooke. 

"Mausoleum of Bums, Dumfries — 
J. H. Kernot. 

Dumfries— J?. Qoodall. 

The Castle ©^Montgomery— iJ. 
Brandard, 

Culzean Castle— .E. OoodaU. 

The Pier of I.eith— TT. MUler. 

Town and Harbour of Ayr— .S. 
Goodall. 

Profile and Seal of Burns— IF. C. 
Edwards. 



** The Life of Burns, by Allan Cunningham, surpasses all the biogra- 
phies that have been prefixed to the modern republications of men of 
genius. Without excepting Soutbey's Nelson, it equals the best of the 
various lives that have been published during the present century. 
The staple of the work is the product of years, perhaps of a whole life.** 
^Spectator, 

** Cunniugham's Edition of Burns has greatly pleased us ; there is an 
absence of that cant which every editor of Burns has, more or less, 
exhibited. Hitherto Burns and Sir Walter Scott have been the only 
Scotchmen who have risen superior to the conventional humbug and 
cant of society. We are glad to see that Mr. Cunningham has had the 
manliness to imitate those eminent masters." — Times, 



JAMES COCHRANE & CO. 
11, Waterloo Flacb. 



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