c. Ex Libris K. OGDEN 1 ^ National Illustrated Library. In Monthly Volume*. 2s. Gd. each. Published thi* day, BOSWELL'S LIFE OF JOHNSON, Volume the First. 65 Engravings. BOOK OF ENGLISH SONGS, rC From the 16th to the 19th Century. 63 Engraving*. THE BURIED CITY OF THE EAST NINEVEH. 67 Engravings. NATIONAL ILLUSTRATED LIBRARY. THE Second Volume of BOSWELL'S LIFE OF JOHNSON is layed for a few days. A very interesting Volume for ne is in preparation. The Second Edition of the First Volume of JOHNSON and :NEVKH now in the press. '/i NATIONAL ILLUSTKATED LIBRARY. "**-V <'t 3te2 THE BOOK OF ENGLISH SONGS /rnra tljr iiitrratlj tn tlj? $inrtrmtjj rntnri|. LONDON : OFFICE OF THE NATIONAL ILLUSTRATED LIBRARY. 198, STRAND. Annex -PR PREFACE. THE following collection of the popular and national songs of Eng. land is offered to the lovers of this delightful department of literature, with the hope that it will be found to present, in a small compass, a large portion of the most celebrated effusions of this kind which the language affords. The ordinary song-books, of which large numbers are annually, if not daily issued, at prices varying from one penny to a shilling, are for the most part value- less to those who desire to know the age in which the songs were written, the names of the authors, the circumstances which led to their production, or any fact of interest connected with their origin or their influence. They contain neither names nor dates, make no attempt at classification, and often include effusions which are objectionable to the right-minded, and unfit to be placed in the hands of the young. The collection now offered to the public aims to supply a deficiency in these respects ; and although it has no pretensions to being complete, for fifty volumes would scarcely exhaust a subject so extensive as the songs of the English people, it is hoped that it presents a fair view of the progress and present state of English literature in this particular branch. The songs have not been uniformly selected for their beauty or their excel- lence. While these claims have not been lost sight of, the- popularity which they may have at any time enjoyed, or the influ- ence, direct or indirect, which they may be supposed to have exercised upon the popular mind, have been considered legitimate passports to a place in this volume. It is possible that many readers with whom particular songs may have become favourites from old association, may look in vain in this volume for the lyrics PREFACE. that have been impressed on their memory by accidental circum- stances, but they will possibly admit, upon reflection, that these are to a great extent matters of individual taste, and that the song which is beautiful to one man, because his mother, his sister, his lover, his wife, or his friend may have sung it, may be without charms for him who has not heard it repeated under similar cir- cumstances. It should also be remembered that he who selects, with small space at his disposal, from a vast mass of materials, must necessarily omit much, which, had he been less restricted for room, he would willingly have included. The Editor regrets that he has not been able to obtain from the proprietors of the copyright of the Songs of Thomas Moore, per- mission to include in this volume any of the beautiful compositions of that greatest of our modern song-writers ; but as every reader of taste, and every lover of music is familiar with the writings of Mr. Moore, it is hoped that the volume will not be on that account the less acceptable to those who desire to know the past as well as the present state of song-literature. The Editor cannot, while ex- plaining this involuntary deficiency of the volume, omit to express his thanks to the living writers who have so cordially given him permission to make extracts from their works. He has also to return his acknowledgments to Messrs. Cramer and Beale, Regent-street ; to Messrs. Goulding and D'Almaine, of Soho-square; to Messrs. Bradbury and Evans, and to Messrs. Adam and Charles Black, of Edinburgh, for the permission to insert the compositions of deceased authors, of which they possess the copyright and to Mr. William Chappell, and to Dr. E. F. Rimbault, for the kind communication of many interesting facts connected with the authorship of old songs. London, April, 1851. CONTENTS. SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. My sweet Sweeting .... . MS. temp. Henry VIII. . 15 The Loyal Lover ,y . 16 The Sorrows of True Lovers' Parting . . Sir Thomas Wyatt . 17 The Deceived Lover sueth only for Liberty . 18 The Lover comforteth himself . Earl of Suriey . 19 Give place, ye lovers .... . . 20 In an arbour green .... . " Lusty Juventus" . . . 21 Love me little, love me long . . Anonymous . . . 22 If Women could be fair . Byrd's "Songs and Sonnets" . . 23 May never was the Month of Love . Morley's "Ballets" . . 24 Rosalind's Complaint .... . Thomas Lodge . . . . 25 A Character of Love .... . Sarmiel Danyell . 26 Sigh no more Ladies .... . William Shakspeare . 27 Hark ! hark ! the Lark ! . 27 Take, oh take, those lips away ! . . 28 The Folly of Love .... . John Dowland . 28 There is a garden in her face . Richard Allison . . . . 29 Symptoms of Love .... . The "Muses' Garden" . 30 A Doubt resolved .... . Dr. R. Hughes . . . . 31 Dearest ! do not you delay me . John Fletcher . 32 You meaner Beauties .... . Sir Henry Wotton . .;; t > . 32 Woman's Inconstancy .... . Sir Robert Aytoun . . ^ . 33 .... . John Donne .... . 34 Drink to me only with thine eyes . . Ben Jonson .... . 35 Still to be neat ... . 35 On Celia Singing .... Thomas Carew . 36 He that loves a rosy cheek . .... . 36 Mediocrity in Love rejected . ... . 37 Shall I like a Hermit dwell? . . Sir Walter'Rakigh . 37 Shall I, wasting in despair ? . . George Wither . 38 I loved a Lass a fair one . ... . 40 Tell me no more 42 Go, happy Rose . . . ... . Robert Herrick . 43 Good morrow ..... . Thomas Heywood . . . 44 I prythee send me back my heart . . Sir John Suckling . . 45 The Dew no more shall weep . Richard Crashaw . . . 45 I never yet could see that face . . . Abraham Cowley t . . 46 CONTENTS. Richard Lovelace . PAO-F. . 47 The Resolve ...... Alexander Brome . , . 48 . 48 Fair, sweet, and young . Sir George Etherege . 49 . 50 Cease anxious world Sir Charles Scdley . . 50 . 51 Reasons for constancy ..... The Deposition The Lover's Vow Rivalry in Love .... . The Fire of Love Fair Hebe Till death I Sylvia most adore Thomat Stanley Bishop Atterbury William Walsh . ."' Earl Dorset . Lord Cantalupe " The Hive" . . 52 . 52 . 63 . 64 . 65 . 55 . 66 . 56 Unhappy love ... ... . 56 Tell me, my heart, if this he love ? The Shape alone ...... Lord Lyttleton . 57 . 57 O, Nancy, wilt thou go with me? . Thomas Percy J O'Keefe . 58 . 59 When lovely woman stoops to folly . . Oliver Goldsmith Sir C H Williamt ".' . 60 . 60 Pretty little Sue ; . Had I a heart for falsehood . . .'.-'. If 'tis Love to wish you near. . . Love and Glory ...... Oh ! say not woman's heart is bought . County Guy I saw thee weep . . . . . ' , " Myrtle and Vine " . R. B. Sheridan Charles Dibdin Thomas Dibdin J. H. Payne . Sir Waller Scott . 61 . 62 . 62 . 63 . 63 . 64 64 When we two parted Farewell! . 65 . 66 Why are you wandering here, I pray ? . Love's Follies Oh ! no, we never mention her . ', . Sally ! Sally ! shilly shally ! . . Adieu, Adieu, our dream of love . . . 1 think on thee in the night . . .' Kllen Evelina Kenncy .... W. T. Moncrieff T. H. Bayley Samuel Lover . Thomas K. Hen-ey . Charles Mackay . 66 . 67 . 68 . 68 . 69 . 70 . 70 71 G. Meredith . . 72 Love in Hate Love not PASTORAL AND Charles Mackay Hon. Mrs. Norton . RURAL SONGS. . 73 . 73 76 The passionate Shepherd to his Love The Nymph's Reply Phillis the Fair Christopher Marlowe Sir Waller Raleigh , Nicholas Breton . 7K . 7S . !!' CONTENTS. Ill PAGE The Disconsolate Shepherd . . W. Shakspeare^ . . 80 Ye little birds that sit and sing . Thomat Heywood . . 82 What pleasure have great princes . . Byrd's "Songs and Sonnets" . . 83 Welcome, welcome, do I sing . William Browne .... 84 Invitation to May .... . Morley't "Ballets" .... 85 The Shepherd's Holiday . James Shirley . . . . 85 The praise of a Countryman's Life . John Chalkhill .... 86 Amintor's Well-a-day .... . Dr. B. Hughes . . . .87 Colin's Complaint . Nicholas Rowe ... .88 As I walked forth one Summer's day . Playford"s "Airs and Dialogues" . 90 The Sun was sunk beneath the hill . John Gay 90 The Shepherd's Complaint . . Lord Binning . . . .92 Dame Durden . Anonymous ..... 93 The Choice of a rural Wife . 94 Johnny and Jenny .... . Edward Moore . . . .95 The Lass of Richmond Hill . Upton 97 The Farmer's Son .... . " Myrtle and Vine " ... 98 The Suffolk Yeoman's song . . J. Hughes 100 Mine be a Cot beside the Hill . Samuel Rogers . . . .102 The Ploughshare of Old England . . Eliza Cook 102 CONVIVIAL SONGS. . 103 Good Ale . John Still 108 Come, thou Monarch of the Vine . . W. Shakfpeare . . . .109 The thirsty Earth . Abraham Cowley . . . .110 The Leather Bottel .... . " Antidote to Melancholy " . . 110 Begone, dull care .... . " Play ford's Companion" . .113 Down among the dead men . Anonymous ..... 113 How stands the glass around . _ 114 Come now all ye social powers . J. Bickers taffe 115 When I drain the rosy bowl . Francis Fawkes .... 116 Busy, curious, thirsty fly ... . Vincent Bounie . . . .117 With an honest old friend . Henry Carey 117 What is war and all its joys . Thomas Cliatterton .... 118 A pot of Porter, ho ! . " Myrtle and Vine" . . .118 English Ale , 119 Here's to the maiden of bashful fifteen . . R. B. Sheridan . . . .120 This bottle's the sun of our table . .... 120 The Brown Jug .... . John O'Kcefe . . . .121 The winds whistle cold . Daniel Terry 121 A Glass is Good . Farce of the " Rival Soldiers". . 122 A Bumper of good liquor . " Humming Bird" .... 123 May we ne'er want a friend nor a bottle . Anonymous ..... 123 Fill the goblet again .... . Lord Byron 124 The best of all good company . Barry Cornwall .... 125 A Song after a Toast .... . Charles Mackay . . . .12-5 The Dream of the Reveller . . Charles Mavkay . . . .126 JV CONTENTS. MORAL AND SATIRICAL SONGS. 1-AG K INTRODUCTION ..... 129 Women are best when they are at rest . . Thomas Dibdin . 131 The Cuckoo's Song .... .... . 132 When Daisies pied .... . W. Shakspeare . 133 The Contented Man's Song . . Hugh Campion . . . . 134 Why so Pale and Wan? . Sir John Suckling . . 135 Death's final Conquest .... . James Shirley . 135 When this old cap was new . . Anonymous .... . 136 Tobacco is an Indian Weed . . .... . 139 The Vicar of Bray .... . (Doubtful} .... . 141 A Man to my Mind .... . John Cunningham . . . . 143 From the Court to the Cottage . Harry Carey .... . 143 The fine old English Gentleman . . Anonymous .... . 144 Fair Rosalind . "Convivial Songster" . . . 145 Sir Marmaduke ..... . George Culman,jun. . . . 146 Content and a Pipe .... . Anonymous .... . 147 What is't to us who guides the State . "Convivial Songster" . 147 Abraham Newland .... . "Whim of the Day" . 148 The Guinea ' ... . 149 T was merry in the Hall . Anonymous .... . 150 The good Time coming. . . . . H. Russell .... 151 King Death . Hurry Cornwall . . . . 153 Little Fools and great ones . . Charles Mackay . . . . 154 SEA SONGS. 156 . 160 " Deuteromelia" ... . 161 Ve gentlemen of England ... 161 To all you Ladies now on land . Earl of Dorset . 162 Black-eyed Susan .... . John Gay .... . 164 Hearts of Oak . David Garrick . 165 The I/)ss of the Royal George . William Cowper . 166 . G. A. Stevens 168 Come, bustle, bustle .... . " Convivial Songster" . 169 The Bay of Biscay, O . . Andrew Cherry . 170 The Mid- watch . R. B. Sheridan . 171 Poor Jack . Charles Dibdin . 172 Blow high, Blow low .... ... . 173 Tom Bowling ... . 174 The Sailor's Consolation ... . 175 176 True Courage . ,, ... . 176 177 K very Bullet has its Billet . . . 178 Life's like a Ship 179 CONTENTS. The Land, boys, we live in . . " Myrtle and Vine " The Death of Nelson . . L. J. Arnold . The Arethusa . Prince Hoare The Origin of Naval Artillery . Thomas Dibdin The Minute Gun .... . R. S. Sharpe Ye Mariners of England . Thomas Campbell . The Battle of the Baltic The Spanish Armada . . . . . J. O'Keefe The Neglected Sailor . . Edward Rushton A Wet Sheet . Allan Cunningham . The Sea . Barry Cornwall PAGE . 180 . 181 . 182 . ]88 . 184 . 185 . 186 . 188 . 189 . 191 . 192 PATRIOTIC AND MILITARY SONGS. INTRODUCTION From Merciless Invaders GOD save the King The Soldier's Glee Come, if you dare Rule Britannia The Death of the Brave The Roast Beef of Old England The British Grenadiers The Soldier's Drinking Song The Brave Men of Kent A Soldier, a soldier for me . He comes, he comes . A Knapsack and a cheerful heart. The Soldier .... The snug little Island . Upon the Plains of Flanders . Anonymous , . (Doubtful) . " Deuteromelia " . . John Dryden . , James Thomson . William Collins . Richard Leveridge . . Anonymous . " Convivial Songster ' . TomD'Urfey. , " Humming Bird" . . Reginald Heber. . Charles Dibdin. . W. Smyth . ' . . Thomas Dibdin . Anonymous . 193 . 194 . 195 . 196 . 196 . 197 . 198 . 198 . 199 .200 . 201 . 203 . 204 . 204 . 205 . 206 . 208 SPORTING SONGS. 209 The Three Archers . Anonymous . . . , . 212 Robin, lend to me thy Bow . . . . .... . 213 Oh ! the gallant Fisher's Life . John Chalkhill . . , . 214 When a Shooting we do go . . Anonymous . . . . 216 A Hunting we will go . . Henry Fielding . 218 Old Towler . , *'. . Anonymous .... . 220 The high-metlled Racer . Charles Dibdin . 220 Tom Moody . . Anonymous .... . 222 The Boy in Yellow . " Songs of the Chase" . 223 The Cricketer ... . Anonymous .... . 224 Far away . . " Songs of the Cliase " . 225 Now Night her dusky Mantle . Anonymous .... . 226 Say, what is Wealth .... . 226 Ringwood . . . . . . " Songs of the Chase " . . . 227 The Skater's song . "Sportsman's Vocal Cabinet" . . 228 VJ CONTENTS. Hark ! the hollow Woods resounding . . The tuneful sound of Robin's Horn . . Anonymous The Health of Sporting .... Waken Lords and Ladies gay ? . . Sir Walter Scott Huntsman's Rest The Huntsman's Dirge . *- . . . Anonymous PAGE . 229 . MO . 231 . 282 . 284 . 234 MAD SONGS. . 235 . 238 . 239 . 239 The Mad-Maid's song . The Mad Lover . The Mad Shepherdess . Tom a Bedlam, or Mad Tom The Distracted Lover . Old Mad Tom . . Robert Herrick . Alexander Brome . William Baste . 240 . 242 . " The Thrush" . 248 . 244 Oh, for my true Love . . The Distracted Maid . The Mad Girl's Song . The Maniac . " Myrtle and Vine . Thomas Dibdin . . . . . G. M . Lewi* and H. Ruuett . . 245 . 245 . 246 .247 MISCELLANEOUS SONGS. Under the Greenwood Tree . Winter .... Blow, Blow, thou Winter Wind Youth and Age . In Praise of Melancholy '. Loss in Delays Panglory's Wooing Song The Commendation of Music Sweet Day so cool To Althca, from Prison . Hope . . . . . Man's Mortality . Haste thee. Nymph May Morning . . ' . . Go, Lovely Rose . The Fairies' song . In Summer-time . Sir John Barleycorn The Fairy Queen . Away with Grief . The Jovial Beggars The Praise of Milk The Old Man's Wish . Gently stir .... Dirge in " Cymbeline " Sweet May .... W. Shalcspeare Dr. William Strode Robert Southwell . Giles Fktcher .... William Strode George Herbert , Richard I,ovelace . . "Hour's Recreations in Music" . Simon Wastell John Milton .... Edmund Waller , Anonymous .... Tom D'Urfey .... , " The English Dancing Master ' , " Percy's Relics " . . . Hugh Crompton . . , " Playjord's Choice Airs" Dr. Walter Pope . . Dean Swift . . V . William Collins Erasmus Darwin . 348 . 249 . 249 . 250 . 250 . 251 . 252 . 253 . 254 . 254 . 255 . 255 . 25fl . 267 . 258 . 259 . 260 . 262 . 267 . 268 . 269 . 271 . 272 . 273 . 274 . 27-1 CONTENTS. The Friar of Orders Grey Merrily goes the Mill .... The Miller The Pretty Parrot .... Where Thames Along the Daisy'd Meads There was a Jolly Miller The Origin of the Patten The Uncommon Old Man DulceDomum Gluggity Glug Variety The Turning of the Wheel . In the Season of the Year . I am a Friar of Orders Grey All's Well Home, Sweet Home .... Convent Bells Wife, Children, and Friends . That Song again Be still, be still, poor human heart The Old Man's Song of the Old Year's dying Isle of Beauty, fare thee well , The Song of a Shirt .... Dear is my little Native Vale Melancholy The Tambourine Song .... The founding of the Bell The Brave Old Oak .... Tubal Cain ...... Song for Twilight .... The Old Arm Chair .... The Ivy Green .... The Wild Cherry Tree . The Bud is on the Bough . Fair Flower ! Fair Flower ! The Nights The Bugle Song . Dr. Percy .... . George Colman Charles Highmore . , Aikin's " Vocal Poetry " . . ' . David Mallett J. Bickerstaff .... . Charles Dibdin . . " Convivial Songster " Anonymous .... , " Myrtle and Vine ". , " Myrtle and Vine " " Convivial Songster " John O'Keefe . Thomas Dibdin Howard Payne . T. H. Bayley. . Hon. W. Spencer . . Thomas K. Hervey . Eleanor a L. Montague (Mrs. T. Hervey) .... . T. H. Bayley .... Thomas Hood . Samuel Rogers Charles Mackay Charles Mackay H. F. Charley Charles Mackay . Barry Cornwall Eliza Cook Charles Dickens Barry Cornwall Francis Bennoch W. T. Moncrieff Barry Cornwall Alfred Tennyson vu I PAGE . 275 . 279 . 280 . 281 . 282 . 283 . 283 . 284 . 285 . 286 . 287 . 288 . 289 . 290 . 291 . 292 . 292 . 298 . 298 . 299 . 299 . 293 . 294 . 296 . 297 . 297 . 301 . 303 . 304 . 306 . 307 . 308 . 309 . 309 . 310 . 311 . 312 SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. A CONSIDERABLE amount of error and misconception exists I\. upon the subject of Poetry in general and of song writing in particular. Poetry itself, which M. de Lamartine asserts to be " the guardian angel of humanity in every age," is considered by many, not otherwise unintelligent people, to be identical with verse an idle art unworthy of an age of practical usefulness ; while song writing is held to be the most frivolous department of a frivolous pursuit. Even many of a more correct and better educated taste scarcely know the difference between a song and any other short poem. The multitude who sing feel what a song is but the smaller class who reason and refine are as yet scarcely agreed upon the meaning of the term song unless the vague definition that it is " something which may be sung " can be considered as satis- factory. The worth of a song in the estimation of such critics as A 10 SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. these, is as little as can be imagined; and it has become a pro- verb, when a thing has been purchased at a price ridiculously low, to say that it has been bought " for a song." On the other hand, there are people who somewhat over-rate the value and importance of songs, and who repeat the phrase made popular by Fletcher of Saltoun, that the song-writer has more influence upon the mind of the people than the law-maker. Both of these estimates are wrong. A song is neither so small nor so great a matter -as is represented. The many beautiful com- positions in the English language, that may strictly be called songs, and which we owe to the genius of some of our most illustrious writers, from the age of Shakspeare to our own, are sufficient proofs that the depreciation of those who deny all value to this form of poetry is unjust and unfounded, while the absence of any great number of songs, popular enough to model the life to sway the passions and to stir the patriotism of the English multitude, proves that, as regards our nation at least, Fletcher of Saltoun, and those who repeat his opinion, have to a considerable extent over-rated their influence. Yet who knows how much of loyalty might have remained unexcited if the music of the National Anthem had not been so magnificent, and if the air of " Rule Britannia" had not been so inspiriting? The song writer without the musician is, in fact, but a writer of short poems and " immortal verse" must be married to "immortal music" before it can exercise its full influence upon the mind of a people. A song and a ballad have points of resemblance and of differ- ence. A ballad, which at present seems to signify a song wherein a stoiy is told, originally meant a short, or even a long, poem, modulated in the recital to serve as a musical accompaniment to a dance from lallare, to dance. A song, strictly, should express a sentiment only ; but the distinction has been often disregarded by our best writers, and some of the most beautiful compositions of this class in the English language partake largely of the characteristics of both. But a song is a more difficult and excellent composition than a ballad. A song should be like an epigram complete and entire a perfect chrysolite ; brilliant on every side. It should give voice to one pervading idea, which should be illustrated naturally and elegantly. It should contain SONGS OP THE AFFECTIONS. 11 no word that could be omitted without injury to the music or the meaning ; and should avoid the jar of inharmonious consonants, which in the English language are so difficult to sing. Every stanza should be the very twin and counterpart of the other, as regards the rhythm ; and the whole composition, whether sprightly, tender, patriotic, convivial, or melancholy, should be short and terse, and end with the natural climax of the sentiment. A ballad, while it should be as perfect as regards the rhythm, is allowed more license, and may extend to any length consistent with the interest of the story told in it, or the power of voice in the singer. Some writers and critics have confined the legitimate topics of song to the expression of amatory, convivial, or patriotic sentiment. This, however, is an undue limitation, for not only love and patriotism, and the less laudable feelings inspired by the Bacchanalian frenzy, but joy, hope, tenderness, gratitude, cheer- fulness, melancholy, and even grief, are the proper themes of song. Their expression by musical cadences is as natural to men in all ages and climates as speech itself. All high emotion is rhythmical. Wherever there is life and hope, joy or sorrow, there are the materials of songs ; and the youthful, more especially, give vent to their feelings in this natural music, as we may suppose the birds give vent to theirs, finding in the expression its own re- ward. The tender passion in all ages and in all languages has ever been the most prolific source of songs. The hope and fear the joy and sorrow the quarrels and reconciliation the guilt and remorse and even the hatred of lovers, have all found expres- sion in these popular compositions ; and, while there are young hearts to feel, and old ones to be interested in that passion, it is to be anticipated that songs will continue to be made and to be sung in celebration of the triumphs of love. No progress of philosophy or refinement will root from the heart that feeling which the American philosopher, Emerson, calls the " divine rage and enthu- siasm, which seizes ou man at one period, and works a revolution in his mind and body, unites him to his race, pledges him to the domestic and civic relations, carries him with new sympathy into Nature, enhances the power of the senses, opens the imagination, adds to his character heroic and sacred attributes, establishes marriage, and gives permanence to human society." 12 SOXGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. " All mankind," says the same deep thinker in another por- tion of his delightful Essay, " love a lover. Though the celestial rapture falling out of heaven seizes only upon those of tender age ; and although we can seldom see after thirty years a beauty overpowering all analysis or comparison and putting us quite beside ourselves, yet the remembrance of these visions out- lasts all other remembrance, and is a wreath of flowers on the oldest brows. No man ever forgot the visitation of that power to his heart and brain which created all things new which was the dawn in him of music, poetry, and art which made the face of Nature radiant with purple light the morning and the night varied enchantments." Love is the fine spirit of song, and in all its Protean shapes gives music to expression. English literature contains no amatory songs of any merit, with the exception of a few which we owe to the genius of those unfortunate friends, the Earl of Surrey and Sir Thomas Wyatt, a date anterior to that golden age which produced a Shakspeare. Whatever songs of the kind may have been sung by the people have perished, or only exist in rude snatches and fragments, which Shakspeare himself, and some of his contemporaries, have pre- served. The amatory songs, or the songs of the affections, pro- duced at that time, or such of them as have been handed down to us, are rather the productions of the learning and the fancy of scholars, than the simple and passionate effusions of lovers. There is an air of elegance about them highly pleasing to the refined taste, a finish and a grace, and an epigrammatic bril- liancy which never fail to captivate ; but heart is wanting. In the age which succeeded that of Shakspeare, the merit of the popular love songs became still less, and heart may be said to have disappeared from them altogether, or to have been but faintly discernible amid a mass of scholarly conceits and learned prettinesses. The public taste was vitiated, and at last became satisfied with mock sentiment, and pagan allusion. No lover considered himself a true devotee at the shrine of beauty without appealing to Cupid or to Venus, and interlarding his speech with thoughts and expressions scarcely fitting in a Greek or a Roman but utterly un suited to the realities of passion in a land SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 13 and among a people that were not heathen. Towards the end of the seventeenth century, an attempt to discard the ancient mythology was made by the best writers. It succeeded partially, but it was only to introduce a new style as objectionable as the old. Love played at masquerade, and bedizened itself in the costume of a stage shepherd. It was at this time that the loves of all the Chloes and Strephons came into fashion. The famous song attributed sometimes to Pope, and some- times to Swift, but most probably the composition of the former, and asserted to be written "by a Lady of Quality," happily ridiculed this class of songs, and those which had preceded them : " Fluttering spread thy purple pinions, Gentle Cupid, o'er my heart, I, a slave 4n thy dominions, Nature must give way to art. Mild Arcadians ever blooming, Nightly nodding o'er your flocks, See my weary days consuming All beneath yon flowery rocks. ***** " Melancholy smooth Meander, Swiftly purling in a round, On thy margin lovers wander, With thy flowery chaplets crown'd. Thus when Philomela drooping, Softly seeks her silent mate, See the birds of Nino stooping, Melody resigns to Fate." When English song writing was at its lowest ebb; when coarse and brutal Bacchanalian rhapsodies were sung at the table ; when women's charms (her virtues were scarcely mentioned) were either portrayed in the silly masquerade of the writers of pastorals, or in the more natural, but less respectful, lyrical effusions of the wits and men about town, Captain Charles Morris, of the Life Guards, gallantly endeavoured to give a better tone to this department of literature. To use his own language, "he set his face against the lyrical scribblers of the eighteenth century, who, odious to relate, allowed not woman her true place in the heart, and placed 14 SOXGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. her, in all their songs of glee and gladness, invariably below the bottle. She was held out in terror em to all happiness and joy, and to fly from her was the burthen of every song." He, on the contrary, wrote "to discipline anew the social bands of convivial life, to blend the sympathies of fellow hearts, and wreathe a sweeter and gayer garland for the brow of festivity from the divine plants of concord, gratitude, friendship, and love." His genius, however, was not equal to his good intentions, and of the many hundred songs which he wrote, not one is worth remembering, except as a slight improvement upon the verses of Pope's " Lady of Quality," that mythological person who is supposed to have been the parent of all the love songs of the eighteenth century. The return to the simplicity of nature, as the only source of poetic beauty, which signalized the revival of English literature at the commencement of the present century, had of course an effect upon the public taste as regarded songs ; and a song writer appeared whose fame eclipsed that of all other competitors. Thomas Moore , whose Irish Melodies are Irish by their music, and by their nationality of sentiment, is, nevertheless, the best writer of English songs whom our literature has produced. He may be claimed for England, as well as for the country of his birth ; and the example of heart, united with intellect, of vigour combined with elegance, and of philosophy with fancy, which he set to his contemporary writers of verse, will long exercise a genial influ- ence upon the literature of song. While English songs that are written to be read have gradually attained the highest beauty, English songs intended to be sung have not reached the same perfection. In this respect the fault lies with the musical composers, who seem to love the "Lady of Quality" and her smooth " nonsense verses" far better than they love poetry, and to fail in adapting to music the higher flights of fancy or imagination, and the tenderer bursts of natural feeling. Without their aid the song writer cannot win his way to the popular heart ; and poets, disgusted with musicians, will neglect this fascinating branch of the poetic art, and direct the energies of their minds to more elaborate composition. "\ MY SWEET SWEETING. From a MS. temp. Henry VIII.i AH my sweet sweeting; My little pretty sweeting, My sweeting will I love wherever I go ; She is so proper and pure, Full, stedfast, stable and demure, There is none such, you may be sure. As my sweet sweeting. In all this world, as thinketh rne, Is none so pleasant to my e'e, That I am glad so oft to see, As my sweet sweeting. 1 This is a small oblong paper volume known to be of this early date by the badges on the binding, and the names on the fly leaf. It passed through the hands of Thomas Mulliner, Thomas Hey wood, and Churchyard the poet. It was in the library of Sir John Hawkins, the musical historian, and afterwards in that of J. S. Smith, the author of ' Musica Antiqua," and is now in the possession of Dr. Kimbault. 16 SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. When I behold my sweeting sweet, Her face, her hands, her minion feet, They seem to me there is none so mete, As my sweet sweeting. Above all other praise must I, And love my pretty pygsnye, 1 . For none I find so womanly As my sweet sweeting. THE LOYAL LOVER. From the same MS. as the preceding song. As I lay sleeping, In dreams fleeting, Ever my sweeting Is in my mind. She is so goodly, With looks so lovely, That no man truly Such one can find. Her beauty so pure, It doth under lure My poor heart full sure In governance. Therefore now will I Unto her apply, And ever will cry For remembrance. Her fair eye piercing, My poor heart bleeding, And I abiding, In hope of mede ; 1 A term of endearment, used by Chaucer, Skelton, &c., probably the origin of the modern word pickaninny. It is spelled piggesnie in Tyrwhitt's edition of Chaucer. The poet, describing the Carpenter's wife in the Miller's Tale, says, " She was a primsole a piggesnie ;" primsole, signifies a primrose. " The Romans," says Tyrwhitt, " used finilux as a term of endearment, and perhaps piggesnie, in vulgar language, only means ocellus ; the eyes of that animal being remarkably small." Note on Chaucer's Cant. Tales, T. 3268. Todd (Johnson's Diet, in v. PigsneyJ has shown that the word was occasionally written pigs eif. The derivation, however, seems more likely to be fi em the old Saxon word, uiga, & girl. SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. But thus have I long, Entuning this song, With pains full strong, And cannot speed. Alas will not she, Now show her pity, But thus will take me, In such disdain; Methinketh I was Unkind that she is, That hindeth me thus, In such hard pain. Though she me hind, Yet shall she not find, My poor heart unkind, Do what she can ; For I will her pray, While I live a day, Me to take for aye, For her own man. THE SORROWS OF TRUE LOVERS' PARTING. Sir THOMAS WYATT, born 1503, died 1554. THERE was never nothing more me pain'd, Nor more my pity mov'd, As when my sweetheart her complain 'd, Yet ever she me lov'd, Alas ! the while ! With piteous look she said, and sigh'd, "Alas! what aileth me? To love, and set my wealth so light, On him that loveth not me; Alas! the while! " Was I not well void of all pain, When that nothing me griev'd? And now with sorrows I must complain, And cannot be reliev'd, Alas ! the while ! A 2 18 SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. " My restful nights, and joyful days, Since I began to love Be take from me ; all thing decays Yet can I not remove, Alas ! the while!' She wept and wrung her hands withal, The tears fell on my neck : She turn'd her face, and let them fall, And scarce therewith could speak; Alas! the while! Her pains tormented me so sore That comfort I had none, But cursed my fortune more and more .To see her sob and groan, Alas! the while! THE DECEIVED LOVER SUETH ONLY FOR LIBERTY. Sir THOMAS WTATT. IF chance assign'd, Were to my mind, By every kind Of destiny; Yet would I crave Nought else to have, But (dearest?) life and liberty. Then were I sure, I might endure The displeasure Of cruelty ; Where now I plain Alas ! in vain, Lacking my life for liberty. For without th' one, Th' other is gone, And there can none It remedy; SOXGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. If th' one be past, Th' other doth waste, And all for lack of liberty. And so I drive, As yet alive, Although I strive With misery ; Drawing my breath, Looking for death, And loss of life for liberty. But thou that still, May'st at thy will, Turn all this ill Adversity ; For the repair, Of my welfare, Grant me but life and liberty. And if not so, Then let all go To wretched woe, And let me die ; For th' one or th' other, There is none other ; My death, or life with liberty. THE LOVER COMFORTETH HIMSELF WITH THE WORTHINESS OF HIS LOVE. THE EAEL OF SCKSET, born 1516, died 1547. WHEN raging love with extreme pain Most cruelly distrains my heart; When that my tears, as floods of rain, Bear witness of my woful smart ; When sighs have wasted so my breath, That I lie at the point of death : 19 20 SONGS OF TIIE AFFECTIONS. I call to mind the navy great That the Greeks brought to Troy town: And how the boisterous winds did beat Their ships, and rent their sails adown; Till Agamemnon's daughter's blood Appeas'd the gods that them withstood. And how that in those ten years war Full many a bloody deed was done; And many a lord that came full far, There caught his bane, alas! too soon; / And many a good knight overrun, Before the Greeks had Helen won. Then think I thus : " Sith such repair, So long time war of valiant men, Was all to win a lady fair, Shall I not learn to suffer, then? And think my life well spent to be Serving a worthier wight than she?" Therefore I never will repent, But pains contented still endure; For like as when, rough winter spent, The pleasing spring straight draweth in ure ; l So after raging storms of care, Joyful at length may be my fare. GIVE PLACE, YE LOVERS. THE EARL OF SURREY. GIVE place, ye lovers, here before That spent your boasts and brags in vain; My lady's beauty passeth more The best of yours, I dare well sayen, Than doth the sun the candle light, Or brightest day the darkest night. And thereto hath a troth as just, As had Penelope the fair; For what she saith, ye may it trust, As it by writing sealed were: And virtues hath she many mo' Than I with pen have skill to show. J Ure fortune destiny; a word used by Chaucer and other early writers. SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 21 I could rehearse, if that I would, The whole effect of Nature's plaint, When she had lost the perfect mould, The like to whom she could not paint: With wringing hands, how she did cry, And what she said, I know it aye. I know she swore with raging mind, Her kingdom only set apart, There was no loss by law of kind That could have gone so near her heart; And this was chiefly all her pain; " She could not make the like again." Sith Nature thus gave her the praise, To be the chiefest work she wrought, In faith, methink, some better ways On your behalf might well be sought, Than to compare, as ye have done, ^ To match the candle with the sun. The idea in the third and fourth stanzas of this song " that Nature lost the perfect mould," has been a favourite one with all song-writers and poets : and is found iu the literature of all European nations. IN AN ARBOUR GREEN. From the morality of " Lusty Juventus," printed in the reign of Edward VI. IN an arbour green, asleep where as I lay, The birds sang sweet in the middle of the day, I dreamed fast of mirth and play : In youth is pleasure. Methought I walked still to and fro, And from her company I could not go, But when I waked it was not so : In youth is pleasure. Therefore my heart is sorely pight, Of her alone to have a sight, Which is my joy and heart's delight: In youth is pleasure. 22 SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. LOVE ME LITTLE, LOVE ME LONG. Anonymous. Originally printed in 1569-70, in ballad form, on a broadside in black letter. LOVE me little, love me long, Is the burden of my song, Love that is too hot and strong, Burneth soon to waste : Still I would not have thee cold, Not too backward nor too bold, Love that lasteth till 'tis old, Fadeth not in haste. Love me little, love me long, Is the burden of my song. If thou lovest me too much, It will not prove as true as touch , Love me little, more than such, For I fear the end : I am with little well content, And a little from tbee sent, Is enough, with true intent, To be stedfast friend. Love me little, love me long, &c. Say thou lov'st me while thou live, I to thee my love will give, Never dreaming to deceive, While that life endures : SOSGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 23 Nay, and after death in sooth, I to thee will keep my truth, As now when in my May of youth, This my love assures. Love me little, love me long, &c. Constant love is moderate ever, And it will through life persever, Give me that with true endeavour, I will it restore : A suit of durance let it be, For all weathers, that for me, For the land or for the sea, Lasting evermore. Love me little, love me long, &c. Winter's cold or summer's heat, Autumn's tempests on it beat, It can never know defeat, Never can rebel : Such the love that I would gain, Such the love I tell thee plain, Thou must give or woo in vain ; So to thee farewell. Love me little, love me long, &c. IF WOMEN COULD BE FAIR. From Byrds' " Songs and Sonnets," 1588. IF women could be fair and never fond, Or that their beauty might continue still I would not marvel though they made men bond, By service !ong to purchase their good will; But when I see row frail these creatures are, I laugh that men forget themselves so far. To mark what choice they make, and how they change, How, leaving best, the worst they choose out still, And how, like haggards, wild about they range, Scorning after reason to follow will ; Who would not shake such buzzards from the fist, And let them fly, fair fools, what way they list ? 24 SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. Yet for our sport, we fawn and flatter both, To pass the time when nothing else can please, And train them on to yield by subtle oath, The sweet content that gives such humour ease ; And then we say, when we their follies try, To play with fools, oh, what a fool was I ! MAY NEVEE WAS THE MONTH OF LOVE. From Motley's " Ballets," 1595. MAY never was the month of love, For May is full of flowers ; But rather April wet by kind, For love is full of showers. With soothing words, enthralling souls, She claims in servile hands, Her eye in silence hath a speech, Which eye best understands. Her little sweet hath many sours, Short hap immortal harms, Her loving looks are murdering darts, Her songs bewitching charms. Like winter rose, and summer ice, Her joys are still untimely, Before her, hope behind, remorse, Fair first, in fine unseemly. Plough not the seas, sow not the sands, Leave off your idle pain, Seek other mistress for your mind, Love's service is in vain. SONGS OF THE AFFECTIOKS. ROSALIND'S COMPLAINT. THOMAS LODGE, born 1556, died 1625. LOVE in my bosom like a bee, Doth suck his sweet; Now with his wings he plays with me, Now with his feet; Within mine eyes he makes his nest, His bed amidst my tender breast, My kisses are his daily feast, And yet he robs me of my rest: Ah! wanton, will you? And if I sleep, then pierceth he With pretty slight, And makes his pillow of my knee, The live long night; Strike I the lute, he tunes the string, He music plays, if I but sing; He lends me every lovely thing, Yet cruel, he my heart doth sting : Ah! wanton, will you? 26 SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. Else I with roses every day, Will whip you hence, And bind you when you long to play, For your offence; I'll shut my eyes to keep you in, I'll make you fast it for your sin, I'll count your power not worth a pin, Alas! what hereby shall I win, If he gainsay me ! What if I beat the wanton boy, With many a rod, He will repay me with annoy, Because a god; Then sit thou softly on my knee, And let thy bower my bosom be; Lurk in my eyes, I like of thee, Cupid! so thou pity me; * Spare not, but play thee. A CHARACTER OF LOVE. SAMUEL DANVELL, born 1662, died 1819. LOVE is a sickness full of woes, All remedies refusing, A plant that with most cutting grows, Most barren with best using. Why so? If we enjoy it, soon it dies, If not enjoy'd it sighing cries Hey ho! Love is a torment of the mind, A tempest everlasting, And heav'n has made it of a kind, Not well; nor full, nor fasting. Why so ? If we enjoy it, soon it dies, If not enjoyed, it sighing cries Hey ho 1 SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 27 SIGH NO MORE LADIES. WILLIAM SHAKSPBARB, born 1564, died 1616. SIGH no more, ladies, sigh no more, Men were deceivers ever ; One foot in sea, and one on shore, To one thing constant never: Then sigh not so, But let them go, And be you blithe and bonny, Converting all your sounds of woe, Into, Hey nonny, nonny. Sing no more ditties, sing no more Of dumps so dull and heavy ; The fraud of men was ever so, Since summer first was leavy : Then sigh not so, But let them go, And be you blithe and bonny, Converting all your sounds of woe, Into, Hey nonny, nonny. From " Much Ado About Nothing," Act ii. scene iii. This song is sung by Balthazar, and affirmed by Don Pedro to be " By my troth, a good song." HARK! HARK! THE LARK! WILLIAM SHAKSPEAKB. HARK ! hark ! the lark at Heaven's gate sings, As Phcebus 'gins arise, His steeds to water at those springs, On chaliced flowers that lies, And winking May-buds begin To ope their golden eyes, With every thing that pretty bin, My lady sweet arise Arise arise. From Cymbeline sung by Cloten's musicians under the window* of Imogen' chamber. 28 SONGS OP THE AFFECTIONS. TAKE, OH TAKE, THOSE LIPS AWAY! WILLIAM SHAKSPEARE. TAKE, oh take, those lips away, That so sweetly were forsworn ! And those eyes, the break of day, Lights that do mislead the morn ; 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 chains by thee. There is some doubt as to the authorship of this exquisite song. The first stanza is quoted in " Measure for Measure." Both of the stanzas appear in the " Bloody Brother, or Hollo, Duke of Normandy," by Beaumont and Fletcher. It does not follow, however, that any part of it is Shakspeare's because it is introduced in one of his plays. A note on this passage in Knight's edition of Shakspeare's plays says, " The question arises, is this song to be attributed to Shakspeare or Fletcher? Malone justly observes that all the songs introduced in our author's plays appear to have been his own composition. The idea in the line ' Seals of love, but sealed in vain,' is found in the 142d sonnet. The image is also repeated in ' Venus and Adonis.' Weber, the editor of Beaumont and Fletcher, is of opinion that the first stanza was Shakspeare's, and that Fletcher added the second. There is no evidence, we apprehend, internal or external, by which the question can be settled." THE FOLLY OF LOVE. From JOHN DOWLAND'S Second Book of Songs, 1600. WHAT poor astronomers are they, Take women's eyes for stars, And set their thoughts in battle 'ray, To fight such idle wars; When in the end they shall approve, 'Tis but a jest drawn out of love. SOXGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 29 And love itself is but a jest, Devised by idle heads, To catch young fancies in the nest, And lay it in fools' beds; That being hatched by beauty's eyes, They may be fledged ere they be wise. But yet it is a sport to see How wit will run on wheels ; While wit cannot persuaded be, With that which reason feels That women's eyes and stars are odd, And Love is but a feigned god. But such as will run mad with will I cannot clear their sight, But leave them to their study still, To look where is no light; Till time too late we make them try, They study false astronomy. " John Dowland," says a note in the Bev. Alexander Dyce's edition of the Poems of Shakspeare, " was a famous lutanist." In a sonnet often attributed to Shakspeare, be- cause inserted in his " Passionate Pilgrim," but published by Richard Bamefield, a year before the " Passionate Pilgrim" was given to the world, occur the lines of " Dowland to thee is dear, whose heavenly touch Upon the lute, doth ravish human sense." THEEE IS A GARDEN IN HER FACE. From " An Houre's Recreation in Musicke." RICHARD ALLISON, 1606. THERE is a garden in her face, Where roses and white lilies grow; A heavenly paradise is that place, Wherein all pleasant fruits do grow; There cherries grow that none may buy, Till cherry-ripe themselves do cry. Those cherries fairly do inclose, Of orient pearl a double row, Whicitwhen her lovely laughter shows, They look like rose-buds fell'd with snow; Yet them no peer nor prince may buy, Till cherry-ripe themselves do cry. 30 SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. Her eyes like angels watch them still, Her brows like bended bows do stand, Threatening with piercing frowns to kill All that approach with eye or hand These sacred cherries to come nigh, Till cherry-ripe themselves do cry. This song is apparently the original which suggested to Herrick the lines entitled " Cherry Ripe." Being somewhat altered and adapted to a pleasing melody by Mr. Charles Horn, the song of " Cherry Ripe" became very popular about the year 1826. CHERRY RIPE. Cherry ripe, ripe, I cry, Full and fair ones, come and buy ; If so be you ask me where They do grow, I answer there, Where my Julia's lips do smile There's the land, or cherry isle. Cherry ripe, ripe, I cry, Full and fair ones, come and buy: There plantations fully show All the year where cherries grow. Cherry ripe, ripe, I cry, Full and fair ones, come and buy. SYMPTOMS OF LOVE. From " The Muses' Garden," 1610. ONCE did my thoughts both ebb and flow, As passion did them move ; Once did I hope, straight fear again, And then I was in love. Once did I waking spend the night, And told how many minutes more ; Once did I wishing waste the day, And then I was in love. SOISGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 31 Once by my carving true love's knot, The weeping trees did prove, That wounds and tears were both our lots, And then I was in love. Once did I breathe another's breath, And in my mistress move; Once was I not mine own at all, And then I was in love. Once wore I bracelets made of hair, And collars did approve ; Once were my clothes made out of wax, And then I was in love. Once did I sonnet to my saint, My soul in numbers move; Once did I tell a thousand lies, And then I was in love. Once in my breast did dangling hang A little turtle dove; Once, in a word, I was a fool, And then I was in love. A DOUBT RESOLVED. Dr. R. HUHGBS. " From the third book of Lawes's Ayres." FAIN would I love, but that I fear I quickly should the willow wear; Fain would I marry, but men say, When lo've is tied he will away; Then tell me, love, what shall I do, To cure these fears, whene'er I woo? The fair one she's a mark to all, The brown each one doth lovely call, The black's a pearl in fair men's eyes, The rest willl stoop at any prize; Then tell me, love, what shall I do, To cure these fears whene'er I woo? 32 SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. Young lover know it is not I, That wound with fear or jealousy ; Nor do men ever feel those smarts, Until they have confined their hearts; Then if you'll cure your fears, you shall Love neither fair, hlack, brown, hut all. DEAREST! DO NOT YOU DELAY ME. From FLETCHER'S Comedy of the "Spanish Curate," 162^. 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 far 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 restrain'd, a heart is broken. YOU MEANER BEAUTIES. Sir HENRY WOTTON, born 1568, died 1639. You meaner beauties of the night That 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 chaunters of the wood, That warble forth dame nature's lays, Thinking your passion understood By your weak accents what's your praise, When Philomel her voice shall raise? SONGS OP THE AFFECTIONS. 33 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 design'd Th' eclipse and glory of her kind? This song is supposed to have been inspired by the charms of the Queen of Bohemia, daughter of King James I. It is printed with additional stanzas in Chambers's " Scottish Songs," as the composition of Henry Lord Darnley, the unfortunate husband of the unfor- tunate Mary Queen of Scots. The additional verses are of no great merit, and do not seem to have been the composition of Sir Henry Wotton. Dr. Percy has altered the word " moon," in the concluding line of the first stanza, to " sun," but without sufficiently considering whether the alteration were an improvement. The " sun" is not one of the beauties of the night. The poet knew his meaning better than his critic. WOMAN'S INCONSTANCY. Sir ROBERT AYTOUN, born 1570, died 1638. I LOV'D thee once, I'll love no more, Thine be the grief, as is the blame; Thou art not what thou wert before, What reason I should be the same? He that can love, unlov'd again, Hath better store of love than brain ; God send me love my debts to pay, While unthrifts fool their love away. Nothing could have my love o'erthrown, If thou hadst still continued mine; Yea, if thou hadst remain'd thy own, I might perchance have yet been thine: But thou thy freedom did recal, That if thou might elsewhere enthral; And then how could I but disdain, A captive's captive to remain. When new desires had conquer' d thee, And changed the object of thy will; It had been lethargy in me, Not constancy to love thee still; B 2 34 SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. Yea, it had been a sin to go And prostitute affection so; Since we are taught our prayers to say, To such as must to others pray. Yet do thou glory in thy choice, Thy choice of his good fortune boast ; I'll neither grieve nor yet rejoice, To see him gain what I have lost: The height of my, disdain shall be, To laugh at him, to blush for thee, To love thee still, but go no more, A begging at a beggar's door. From Ritson's " Caledonian Muse" Sir Robert Aytoun was a Scotchman by birth, but his poems belong to English literature. WOMAN'S INCONSTANCY. JOHN DONNE, born 1673, died 1631. IF thou beest born to strange sights. Things invisible to see, Ride ten thousand days and nights Till age snow-white hairs on thee ; Thou, when thou return 'st will tell me All strange wonders that befell thee, And swear, No where, Lives a woman true and fair. If thou find one let me know, Such a pilgrimage were sweet, Yet do not! I would not go, Though at next door, we might meet; Though she were true when you met her, And lasted tall you wrote your letter, Yet she, Will be, False ere I come, to two or three. SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. ,35 DRINK TO ME ONLY WITH THINE EYES. From " The Forest," by BEN JONSON, born 1574, died 1637. DKINK to me only with thine eyes, And I will pledge with mine; Or leave a kiss hut in the cup, And I'll not look for wine. The thirst that from my soul doth rise, Doth ask a drink divine: But might I of Jove's nectar sup, I would not change for thine. I sent thee late a rosy wreath, Not so much honouring thee, As giving it a hope, that there It would not wither'd be. But thou thereon did'st only breathe, And sent it back to me; Since then, it grows and smells I swear, Not of itself, but thee. STILL TO BE NEAT. From " The Forest," by BEN JONSON. STILL to be neat, still to be drest, As you were going to a feast ; Still to be powder'd, still perfumed, Lady, it is to be presumed, Tho' 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 th' adulteries of art; They strike mine eyes, but not my heart. 36 80NOS OF THE AFFECTIONS. ON CELIA SINGING. THOMAS CABEW, bom about 1680, died 1689. You that think love can convey, No other way But through the eyes, into the heart His fatal dart; Close up those casements, and but hear This syren sing, And on the wing Of her sweet voice it shall appear That love can enter at the ear. Then unveil your eyes, behold The curious mould Where that voice dwells; and as we know When the cocks crow, We freely may Gaze on the day; So may you, when the music's done, Awake and see the rising sun. HE THAT LOVES A KOSY CHEEK. THOMAS CABKW. HE that loves a rosy cheek, Or a coral lip admires, Or from star-like eyes doth seek Fuel to maintain its fires; As old Time makes these decay, So his flames must waste away. 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. There is another stanza to this song in some editions of the English poets, but so inferior in every way to these, and so unnecessary to the climax of the sentiment, as to suggest a doi.bt whether it has not been added by an inferior hand. SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 37 MEDIOCKITY IN LOVE EEJECTED. 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 he's possessed Of Heaven, that" s but from hell releas'd; Then crown my joys, or cure my pain; Give me more love or more disdain. SHALL I LIKE A HERMIT DWELL? Attributed to 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? Were her tresses angel-gold 1 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? 1 Angel-gold was of a finer kind than crown gold. 38 SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. Were her hands as rich a prize As her hairs or precious eyes; If she lay them out to take Kisses, for good-manners' sake; 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, whate'er she be! The burden of this song probably suggested the far more beautiful song of George Wither, which immediately follows. SHALL I, WASTING IN DESPAIR. GKORGE WITHER, born 1688, died 1667. 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 flow'ry meads in May, If she be not so to me, What care I how fair she be? Should my heart be grieved or pined 'Cause I see a woman kind ? Or a well disposed nature Joined with a lovely feature ? Be she meeker, kinder, than Turtle-dove or pelican, If she be not so to me, What care I how kind she be ? SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 39 Shall a woman's virtues move Me to perish for her love? Or, her well-deservings known, Make me quite forget my 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? '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 I 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 : For, if she be not for me, What care I for whom she be? From "The Mistress of Philarete," published in 1622. 40 SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. I LOVED A LASS, A FAIR ONE. GEORGE WITHER. I LOV'D a lass, a fair one, As fair as e'er was seen ; She was indeed a rare one, Another Sheba Queen ; But fool 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 far; 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, 1 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. 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. 1 Medley House, between Godstow and Oxford. It has been supposed by Ritson, from the mention of this place of summer recreation for the Oxford students, that Wither wrote this beautiful song when at College in the year 1000 ; but it is not likely to have been the production of a youth of 18. It did not occur to Ritson that a man may write about his college haunts long after he has quitted them. SON T GS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 41 And as abroad we walked, As lovers' 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 heart's desire; I still did scorn to stint her, From sugar, sack, or fire ; 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 through the town, To keep away the weather O'er her I'd cast my gown; No cold my love should feel, Whate'er the heaven's 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. C 42 SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. To maiden's TOWS 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, "fwas other drank the wine ; I cannot now recall things, Lave but a fool to pine: 'Twas I that beat the bush, The birds to others flew, For she, alas! hath left me, Falero, lero, 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 misery 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. TELL ME NO MORE. HENRY KING, Bishop of Chichester, born 1591, died 1669. 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 : By sad experience I have found That her perfection is my wound. SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 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 dote myself away. 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. GO, HAPPY ROSE ! ROBERT HEREIOK, born ]591. Go, happy Rose! and interwove With other flowers, bind my love. Tell her, too, she must not be Longer flowing^ longer free, That so oft has fetter'd me. Say, if she's fretful, I have bands Of pearl and gold to bind her hands; Tell her, if she struggle still, I have myrtle rods at will, For to tame, though not to kill. Take thou my blessing thus, and go. And tell her this, but do not so! Lest a handsome anger fly, Like a lightning from her eye, And burn thee up, as well as I. SONGS OF TH^; AFFECTIONS. ft**, f~ '~^ rf aK p* GOOD MORROW. From " Pleasant Dialogues and Dramas." THOMAS HKYWOOU, 1807. PACK clouds away, and welcome day, With night we banish sorrow; Sweet air blow soft, mount larks aloft, To give my love goodmorrow 1 Wings from the wind to please her mind, Notes from the lark I'll borrow; Bird prune thy wing, nightingale sing, To give my love goodmorrow! To give my love good-morrow, Notes from them both I'll borrow. Wake from thy nest, robin red-breast, Sing birds in every furrow, And from each hill let music shrill, Give my fair love good-morrow ! Blackbird, and thrush, in every bush, Stare, linnet, and cock-sparrow, You pretty elves among yourselves, Sing my fair love good-morrow! To give my love good-morrow, Sing birds in every furrow. SONGS OF THE AFFECTIOHS. 45 1 PRYTHEE SEND ME BACK MY HEART. Sir JOHN SDCKLING, born 1613, died 1641. 1 PRYTHEE send me back my heart, Since I cannot have thine; For if from yours you will not part, Why then shouldst 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 Would 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 resolved, Then I am most in doubt. Then farewell care, and farewell woe; I will no longer pine ; For I'll believe I have her heart, As much as she has mine. THE DEW NO MORE SHALL WEEP. RICHARD CRASHAW, bom about 1615, died 1652. THE dew no more shall weep, The primrose's pale cheek to deck; The dew no more shall sleep, Nuzzled in the lily's neck: Much rather would it tremble here, And leave them both to be thy tear. Not the soft gold which Steals from the amber-weeping tree, 46 SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. Makes sorrow half so rich, As the drops distill'd from thee : Sorrow's best jewels be in these Caskets, of which Heaven keeps the keys. When sorrow would be seen In her bright majesty, For she is a Queen! Then is she dress 'd by none but thee, Then, and only then, she wears Her richest pearls; I mean thy tears. Not in the evening's eyes When they red with weeping are, For the sun that dies, Sits sorrow with a face so fair : No where but here doth meet, Sweetness so sad, sadness so sweet I NEVER YET COULD SEE THAT FACE. A. COWLEY, born 1618, died 1667. I NEVER yet could see that face Which had no dart for me ; From fifteen years to fifty's space, They all victorious be. Colour, or shape, good limbs, or face. Goodness, or wit, in all I find ; In motion or in speech a grace, If all fail, yet 'tis womankind. If tall, the name proper stays ; If fair, she's pleasant as the light; If low, her prettiness does please ; If black, what lover loves not night. i The fat, like plenty, fills my heart, The lean, with love makes me too so ; If straight, her body's Cupid's dart, To me, if crooked, 'tis his bow. SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 47 Thus with unwearied wings I flee Through all love's garden and his fields, And like the wise industrious bee, No weed, but honey to me yields. This song is an abridgment of a poem in Cowley's " Mistress," for which several incongruous stanzas and parts of stanzas have been judiciously omitted by the musical composer. TELL ME NOT, SWEET. By RICHARD LOVELACE, born 1618, died 1658. TELL me not sweet, I am unkind, That from the nunnery Of thy chaste breast and quiet mind, To war and arms I fly. True, a new mistress now I chase, The first foe in the field; And with a stronger faith embrace A sword, a horse, a shield. Yet this inconstancy is such, As you, too, shall adore ; I could not love thee, dear, so much, Loved I not honour more. 48 SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. THE RESOLVE. ALEXANDER BROME, born 1620, died 1606. 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 ; 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 out-red 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 lined. AH, HOW SWEET! JOHN DBYDKN, born 1631, died 1701. AH, how sweet it is to love ! Ah, how gay is young desire ! Aud what pleasing pains we prove When we first approach love's tire ! Pains of love are sweeter far Than all other pleasures are. SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 49 Sighs which are from lovers blown Do but gently heave the heart : E'en the tears they shed alone Cure, like trickling balm, their smart. Lovers, when they lose their breath, Bleed away in easy death. Love and Time with reverence use, Treat them like a parting friend ; Nor the golden gifts refuse Which in youth sincere they send : For each year their price is more, And they less simple than before. Love, like spring tides full and high, Swells in every youthful vein ; But each tide does less supply, Till they quite shrink in again. If a flow in age appear, Tis but rain, and runs not clear. The concluding verse of the first stanza, though possibly unknown to Robert Buis. resembles very closely his much admired lines " 'Tis better for those despairing, Than aught in the world beside, Jessie." FAIR, SWEET, AND YOUNG. JOHN DRYDBN. FAIR, sweet, and young, receive a prize Reserv'd for your victorious eyes: From crowds, whom at your feet you see, O pity and distinguish me! As I, from thousand beauties more Distinguish you, and only you adore. Your face for conquest was design'd ; Your ev'ry motion charms my mind ; Angels, when you your silence break, Forget their hymns to hear you speak; But when, at once, they hear and view, Are loath to mount, and long to stay with you. C 2 50 SONGS OP THE AFFECTIONS. No graces can your form improve, But all are lost unless you love; While that sweet passion you disdain, Your veil and beauty are in vain : In pity then prevent my i'ate, For after dying all reprieve's too late. YE HAPPY SWAINS. Sir GBOBOB ETHBBBGE, bom about 1636, died 1683. YE happy swains, whose hearts are free From love's imperial chain, Take warning and be taught by me To 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 flower- Whoever gazed on beauteous eyes That tasted quiet more ? How faithless is the lover's joy ! How constant is their care ! The kind with falsehood do destroy, The cruel with despair. CEASE ANXIOUS WORLD. Sir OBOKGB ETHBREOB. CEASE anxious world, your fruitless pain, To grasp forbidden store; Your study 'd labours shall prove vain, Your alchemy unblest ; Whilst seeds of far more precious ore Are ripen 'd in my breast SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. *>! My breast the forge of happier love, Where my Lucinda lives ; And the rich, stock does so improve, As she her art employs, That every smile and touch she gives Turns all to golden joys. Since thence we can such treasures raise, Let's no expense refuse; In* love let's lay out all our days; How can we e'er be poor, When every blessing that we use Begets a thousand more? PHILLIS IS MY ONLY JOY. Sir CHARLES SEDLBY, born 1639, died 1701. PHILLIS is my only joy Faithless as the wind or seas ; .Sometimes coming, sometimes coy, Yet she never fails to please. If with a frown I am cast down, Phillis smiling And beguiling, Makes me happier than before. Though, alas! too late I find Nothing can her fancy fire ; Yet the moment she is kind, I forgive her all her tricks; Which though I see, I can't get free; She deceiving, I believing, What need lovers wish for more? 62 SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. REASONS FOR CONSTANCY. Sir CHARLES SEDI.EV. 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 For I am tied to very thee . . By every thought I have: Thy face I only came 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 further store, And still make love anew? When change itself can give no more, 'Tis easy to be true. THE DEPOSITION. THOMAS STANLEY, born 1644, died 1678. THOUGH when I lov'd thee, thou wert fair, Thou art no longer so: Those glories all the pride they wear Unto opinion owe: Beauties, like stars, in borrowed lustre shine, And 'twas my love that gave thee thine. The flames that dwelt within thine eye Do now with mine expire; Thy brightest graces fade and die At once with my desire. Love's fires thus mutual influence return; Thine cease to shine when mine to burn. SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 53 Then, proud Celinda, hope no more, To be implor'd or woo'd; Since by thy scorn thou dost restore The wealth my love bestow'd: And thy despis'd disdain too late shall find That none are fair but who are kind. THE LOVER'S VOW. BISHOP ATTKRBURY, born 1662, died 1732. FAIR Sylvia, cease to blame my youth For having lov'd before ; So men, till they have learn'd the truth, Strange deities adore. 54: SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. My heart, 'tis true, hath often rang'd Like bees on gaudy flowers; And many a thousand loves hath chang'd, Till it was fix'd on yours. But Sylvia, when I saw those eyes, Twas soon determin'd there, Stars might as well forsake the skies, And vanish into air. When I from this great rule do err, New beauties to adore ; May I again turn wanderer, And never settle more. RIVALRY IN LOVE. WILLIAM WALSH, born 1663, died 1709. 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 find, Companions of our woe. Sylvia, for all the pangs you see Are lab 'ring in my breast; I beg not you would favour me, Would you but slight the rest! How great soe'er your rigours are, With them alone I'll cope; I can endure my own despair, But not another's hope. The author of this song is mentioned in the correspondence and poems of Alexander Pope. " In 1705," says Dr. Johnson in his " Lives of the Poets," " Walsh began to correspond with Mr. Pope, in whom he discovered very early the power of poetry. Pope always retained a grateful sense of Walsh's notice, and mentioned him in one of his latest pieces among those that had encouraged his juvenile studies, 'Granville the polite And knowing Walsh, would tell me I could write.' " SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 55 THE FIRE OF LOVE. From the " Esamen Miscellaneum," 1708, where it is said to be by Earl D. (Dorset). THE fire of love in youthful blood Like what is kindled in brushwood, But for a moment burns; Yet in that moment, makes a mighty noise; It crackles, and to vapour turns, And soon itself destroys. But, when crept into aged veins, It slowly burns, and then long remains, And with a silent heat, Like fire in logs, it glows and warms 'em long; And though the flame be not so great, Yet is the heat as strong. FAIR HEBE. By LORD CANTALUPE. From a half-sheet, with the music, printed about 1720, and not included in any collection. FAIB Hebe I left with a cautious design, To escape from her charms, and to drown love in wine; I tried it, but found, when I came to depart, The wine in my head, but still love in my heart. I repair'd to my Eeason, entreating her aid, Who paused on my case, and each circumstance weigh'd; Then gravely pronounced, in return to my prayer, That Hebe was fairest of all that were fair! "That's a truth," replied I, "I've no need to be taught, I came for your counsel to find out a fault;" " If that's all," says Reason, " return as you came, For to find fault with Hebe would forfeit my name." What hopes, then, alas! of relief from my pain, When, like lightning, she darts through each throbbing vein ; My senses surprised, in her favour took arms, And Reason confines me, a slave to her charms ! 56 SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. TILL DEATH I SYLVIA MUST ADORE. From " The Hive." TILL death I Sylvia must adore; No time my freedom can restore; For though her rigour makes me smart, Yet when I strive to free my heart, Straight all my senses take her part. And when against the cruel maid, I call my reason to my aid; But that, alas! I plainly see That nothing lovely is, hut she; And reason captivates me more, Than all my senses did before. WHY, LOVELY CHARMER. From " The Hive." WHY, lovely charmer, tell me why, So very kind, and yet so shy? Why does that cold forbidding air Give damps of sorrow and despair? Or why that smile my soul subdue, And kindle up my flames anew? In vain you strive with all your art, By turns to fire aud'^freeze my heart; When I behold a face so fair, So sweet a look, so soft an air, My ravish'd soul is charmed all o'er, I cannot love thee less or more. UNHAPPY LOVE. From " The Hive." I SEE she flies me everywhere, Her eyes her scorn discover, But what's her scorn, or my despair, Since 'tis my fate to love her? Were she all but kind whom I adore I might live longer, but not love her more. SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 57 TELL ME, MY HEART, IF THIS BE LOVE. GEORGE LORD LYTTELTON, born 1709, died 1773. WHEN Delia on the plain appears, Awed by a thousand tender fears, I would approach, but dare not move ; Tell me, my heart, if this be love ? Whene'er she speaks, my ravish'd ear No other voice than her's can hear ; No other wit but her s approve ; Tell me, my heart, if this be love ? If some other swain commend, Tho' I was once his fondest, friend, His instant enemy I prove; Tell me, my heart, if this be love ? When she is absent, I no more Delight in all that pleased before, The clearest spring, the 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; Tell me, my heart, if this be love? THE SHAPE ALONE. Assigned to AKENSIDB (born 1721, died 1770) by Ilitson, but not contained in his works. THE shape alone let others prize, The features of the fair ; I look for spirit in her eyes, And meaning in her air. A damask cheek and ivory arm Shall ne'er my wishes win; Give me an animated form That speaks a mind within ; D 58 SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 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 Unfiuish'd all her features seem, And all her roses dead. But ah! where both their charms unite, How perfect is the view, With every image of delight, With graces ever new! Of power to charm the deepest woe The wildest rage control; Diffusing mildness o'er the brow, And rapture thro' the soul. Their power but faintly to express All language must despair; But go behold Aspasia's face, And read it perfect there. O NANCY WILT THOU GO WITH ME. THOMAS PERCY, D.D., Bishop of Dromore, editor of the " Relics of Ancient English Poetry," born 1728, died 1811. 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 gown? No longer direst in silken sheen, No longer deck'd with jewels rare, Say, cau'st thou quit each courtly scene. Where thou wert fairest of the fair ? SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 59 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? 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? Nancy! can'st 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 befall, Wilt thou assume the nurse's care. Nor wistful those gay scenes recall, Where tbou 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? THE THORN. JOHN KBEFK, born 1748, died 1833. The Music by Shield. FROM the white blossom'd sloe, my dear Chloe requested A sprig her fair breast to adorn; No ! by Heavens, I exclaim 'd, may I perish, If ever I plant in that bosom a thorn ! When I show'd her the ring and implored her to marry She blush'd like the dawning of morn. Yes, yes ! I'll consent, she replied, if you promise, That no jealous rival shall laugh me to scorn D2 60 SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. WHEN LOVELY WOMAN. OLIVER GOLDSMITH, born 1731, died 1774. WHEN lovely woman stoops to folly, And finds too late that men betray, What charm can soothe her melancholy? What art can wash her guilt away? The only art her guilt to cover, To hide her shame from every eye, To give repentance to her lover, And wring his bosom, is to die. 1 1 " For elegant simplicity of language, harmony of versification, and pointed neatness of composition," says Dr. Aikin in his 'Vocal Poetry,' " there are not perhaps, to be found in the language two more finished stanzas than these, which are introduced in ' The Vicar of Wakefield.'" It may be doubted whether Dr. Aikins's eulogium be deserved. To die is not an 'art.' And, independently of this verbal objection, the philosophy of the song is not irreproachable. A betrayed woman need not, as a matter of course, commit suicide. DEAR BETTY. SIR CHARLES HANBCRV WILLIAMS. DEAR Betty, come give me sweet kisses, Far sweeter no girl ever gave; But why, in the midst of our blisses, Do you ask me how many I'd have ? I'm not to be stinted in pleasure; Then prithee, dear Betty be kind; For as I love ihee beyond measure, To numbers I'll not be confined. Count the bees that on Hybla are straying, Count the flowers that enamel the fields, Count the flocks that on Temp6 are playing, Or the grains that each Sicily yields; Count how many stars are in Heaven; Go reckon the sands on the shore, And when so many kisses you've given, I still will be asking for more. To a heart full of love let me hold thee, A heart that, dear Betty is thine ; SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 61 In my arms I'll for ever enfold thee, And curl round thy neck like a vine. What joy can be greater than this is ? My life on thy lips shall be spent ; But those who can number their kisses Will always with few be content. Sir Charles Hanbury Williams, Bart., wrote a great number of political and other songs, which, with his other works were published in 1822, in 3 vols., from the original MSS. in the possession of his grandson the Earl of Essex, with notes by Horace Walpole. This song the only one of the many which is a shade above mediocrity is an imitation of Martial, lib. vi. Ep. xxxiv. The greater portion of the songs of this writer were produced between 1730 and 1745. PRETTY LITTLE SUE. From the Myrtle and the Vine, A.D. 1780. MY fair, ye swains, is gone astray, The little wand'rer lost her way; In gathering flow'rs the other day ; Sing high, sing high, sing low ; lead her home, ye gentle swains, Who know an absent lover's pains, And bring in safety o'er the plains My pretty little Sue. Whene'er a charming form you see, Serenely grave, sedately free, bring her, for it must be she; Sing high, sing high, sing low : When such a tuneful voice you hear As makes you think a syren's near, O bring her, for it is my dear, My pretty little Sue. But rest my soul, and bless your fate, The gods who formed her so complete, Will safely guard her harmless feet, Sing high, sing high, sing low: O lead her home, ye gentle swains, Who know an absent lover's pains, And bring in safety o'er the plains My pretty little Sue. SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. IF TIS LOVE TO WISH YOU NEAR. CHARLES DIBDIN, bom 1746, died 1814. IF 'tis love to wish you near, To tremble when the wind I hear, Because at sea you floating rove ; If of you to dream at night, To languish when you're out of sight, If this be loving then I love. If, when you're gone, to count each hour, To ask of every tender power That you may kind and faithful prove ; If, void of falsehood and deceit, I feel a pleasure now we meet, If this be loving then I love. To wish your fortune to partake, Determin'd never to forsake, Though low in poverty we strove; If, so that me your wife you'd call, I offer you my little all ; If this be loving then I love. HAD I A HEART FOR FALSEHOOD FRAMED. II. B. SHERIDAN, bom 1751, died 1816. HAD I a heart for falsehood framed, I ne'er could injure you ; For though your tongue no promise claimed, Your charms would make me true: To you no soul shall bear deceit, No stranger offer wrong, But friends in all the aged you'll meet, And lovers in 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 wrong, For friends in all the aged you'll meet, And lovers in the young. SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 63 COUNTY GUY. Sia WALTER SCOTT, born 1771, died 1832. OH ! County Guy, the hour is nigh, The sun has left the lea, The orange flower perfumes the bower, The breeze is on the sea. The lark his lay, who trill'd all day, Sits hush'd his partner nigh; Breeze, bird, and flower, confess the hour, But where is County Guy ? The village maid steals through the shade, Her shepherd's suit to hear; To beauty shy, by lattice high, Sings high born Cavalier. The star of love, all stars above, Now reigns o'er earth and sky ; Now high and low, the influence know, But where is County Guy. This song is introduced into the Novel of " Quentin Durward." OH ! SAY NOT WOMAN'S HEART IS BOUGHT. J. HOWARD PAYNE. From the Opera of Clari, the Maid of Milan. OH ! say not woman's heart is bought With vain and empty treasure; Oh ! say not woman's heart is caught By every idle pleasure. When first her gentle bosom knows Loves flame, it wanders never; Deep in her heart the passion glows, She loves, and loves for ever. Oh ! say not woman's false as fair, That like the bee she ranges! Still seeking flowers more sweet and rare, As fickle fancy changes. Ah! no, the love that first can warm, Will leave her bosom never ; No second passion e'er can charm, She loves and loves for ever. (14 SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. FAREWELL. LOKD BVRON. FAREWELL ! if ever fondest prayer For other's weal avail'd on high, Mine will not all be lost in air, But waft thy name beyond the sky. 'Twas vain to speak, to weep, to sigh; Oh, more than tears of blood can tell, When wrung from guilt's expiring eye, Are in the word Farewell ! Farewell ! These lips are mute, these eyes are dry ; But in my breast, and in my brain, Awake the pangs that pass not by, The thought that ne'er shall sleep again. My soul nor deigns, nor dares complain, Though grief and passion there rebel, I only know I loved in vain I only feel Farewell ! Farewell ! I SAW THEE WEEP. LOED BVKON, bora 1788, died 1824. I SAW thee weep the big bright tear Came o'er that eye of blue; And then methought it did appear A violet dropping dew : I saw thee smile the sapphire's blaze Beside thee cease to shine: It could not match the living rays That filled that glance of thine. As clouds from yonder sun receive A deep and mellow dye, Which scarce the shade of coming eve Can banish from the sky, Those smiles unto the moodiest mind Their own pure joy impart; Their sunshine leaves a glow behind That lightens o'er the heart SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 65 WHEN WE TWO PARTED IN SILENCE AND TEARS. LORD BYBON. WHEN we two parted, In silence and tears, Half broken-hearted, To sever for years. Pale grew the cheek and cold, Colder thy kiss ! Truly that hour foretold Sorrow to this. The dew of the morning Sunk chill on my brow, It felt like the warning Of what I feel now. Thy vows are all broken, And light is thy fame, I hear thy name spoken, And share in its shame, They name thee before me, A knell to mine ear; A shudder comes o'er me Why wert thou so dear? They know not I know thee, Who knew thee too well ! Long, long shall I rue thee Too deeply to tell. In secret we met, In silence I grieve, That my heart would forget, Thy spirit deceive ! If I should meet thee After long years, How should I greet thee? With silence and tears! 6fi SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS, LOVE AND GLORY. THOMAS DIBDIN, born 1771, died 1841. YOUNG Henry was as brave a youth As ever graced a martial story; And Jane was fair as lovely truth; She sighed for Love, and he for Glory. With her his faith he meant to plight, And told her many a gallant story; Till war their coming joys to blight, Call'd him away from Love and Glory. Young Henry met the foe with pride; Jane followed, fought! ah, hapless story! In man's attire, by Henry's side, She died for Love, and he for Glory. WHY ARE YOU WAND'RING HERE, I PRAY? From KENNY'S Comedy of " Sweathearts and WiTe." " WHY are you wand'ring here, 1 pray ?" An old man asked a maid one day, " Looking for poppies so bright and red, Father," said she, " I'm hither led." " Fie, fie !" she heard him cry, " Poppies 'tis known, to all who rove, Grow in the field and not in the grove. " Tell me," again the old man said, " Why are you loit'ring here, fair maid ?" " The nightingale's song, so sweet and clear, Father," said she " I'm come to hear." " Fie, fie !" she heard him cry, " Nightingales all, so people say, Warble by night, and not by day. SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. The sage looked grave, the maiden shy. When Lubin jump'd o'er the style bard by; The sage look'd graver, the maid more glum, Lubin, he twiddled his finger and thumb : " Fie, fie ;" was the old man's cry, " Poppies like these I own are rare, And of such nightingale's songs beware. LOVE'S FOLLIES. "W. T. MONCRIKFF, From Poems privately printed, A. D. 1820. WHEN, lull'd in passion's dream my senses slept, How did I act? e'en as a wayward child; I smiled with pleasure when I should have wept! And wept with sorrow when I should have smiled; When Gracia, beautiful but faithless fair, Who long in passion's bonds my heart had kept, First with false blushes pitied my despair, I smiled with pleasure ! should I not have wept ? 08 SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. And when, to gratify some wealthier wight, She left to grief the heart she had beguiled ; That heart grew sick, and saddening at the sight, I wept with sorrow! should I not have smiled? OH! NO, WE NEVER MENTION HER. THOMAS HAYNES BAYLEV, boru 1797, died 1839. OH ! no, we never mention her, her name is never heard, My lips are now forbid to speak, that once familiar word; From sport to sport they hurry me, to banish my regret, And when they win a smile from me, they think that I forget. They bid me seek in change of scene the charms that others see, But were I in a foreign land, they would find no change in me. 'Tis true that I behold no more the valley where we met, I do not see the hawthorn tree, but how can I forget. For oh! there are so many things recall the past to me, The breeze upon the sunny hills, the billows of the sea ; The rosy tint that decks the sky before the sun is set, Aye, every leaf I look upon forbids that I forget. They tell me she is happy now, the gayest of the gay, They hint that she forgets me too, but I heed not what they say; Perhaps like me she struggles with each feeling of regret, But if she loves as I do love, she never can forget. SALLY. SAMUEL LOVEB. " SALLY ! Sally ! shilly shally ! Sally why not name the day ?" " Harry, Harry ! I will tarry longer in love's flow'ry way." " Sally, why not make your mind up ? Why embitter thus my cup ?' "Harry, I've so great a mind, it takes a long time making up." SOXGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. (it) " Sally, Sally ! in the valley, you have promised many a time, On the summer Sunday morning, as we heard the matin chime, Listening to those sweet bells ringing, calling grateful nearts to pray, I have whispered, ch, how sweetly, they'll proclaim our wedding day." " Harry, Harry! I'll not marry, till I find your eyes don't stray; At Kate Riley you so slily stole a wink the other day." " But Kate Riley, she's my cousin." " Harry, I have cousins too, If you will have close relations, I have cousins close as you," " Sally, Sally ! do not rally, do not mock my tender woe ; Play me not thus shilly shally, Sally do not tease me so; Whilst you're smiling, hearts beguiling, doing all a woman can, Think, though you're almost an angel, I am but a mortal man." ADIEU, ADIEU ! OUR DREAM OF LOVE. THOMAS K. HERVEY. From the " Poetical Sketch Book," 1829. ADIEU, adieu ! our dream of love Was far too sweet to linger long, Such hopes may bloom in bowers above, But here they mock the fond and young. We met in hope, we part in tears ! Yet, oh ! 'tis sadly sweet to know That life, in all its future years, Can reach us with no heavier blow! Our souls have drunk, in early youth, The bitter dregs of earthly ill, Our bosoms, blighted in their growth, Have learned to suffer, and be still ! The hour is come, the spell is past! Far, far from thee, my only love ! Youth's earliest hope, and manhood's last! My darkened spirit turns to rove. 70 SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. Adieu, adieu ! oh, dull and dread, Sinks on the ear that parting knell! Hope, and the dreams of hope, lie dead, To them and thee farewell, farewell ! I THINK ON THEE IN THE NIGHT. THOMAS K. HEBTKT. I THINK on thee in the night, When all beside is still, And the moon comes out, with her pale, sad light, To sit on the lonely hill ! When the stars are all like dreams, And the breezes all like sighs, And there comes a voice from the far-off streams, Like thy spirit's low replies! I think on thee by day, 'Mid the cold and busy crowd, When the laughter of the young and gay Is far too glad and loud! I hear thy soft, sad tone, And thy young, sweet smile I see, My heart, my heart were all alone, But for its dreams of tbee ! ELLEN EVELINA. CHARLES MACKAV. THOU hast smiles for all the world, Ellen Evelina; Beautiful those smiles may be, Warm as sunshine and as free ; But I'd rather, I confess, Love a maid, who, smiling less, Gave her sweetest smiles to me ; Ellen Evelina. SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 71 Thou can'st win the world's applause, Ellen Evelina; Thou'rt a wit and bel esprit, Living upon flattery ; But I'd rather all my days Love a woman, seeking praise, Not from others but from me, Ellen Evelina. When thou singest, hearts beat low, Ellen Evelina; Admiration great and free, Lingers on thy melody: But no song, however fair, In my fancy can compare, With a whispered <( I love thee," 'Ellen Evelina. Oft I think, against my will, Ellen Evelina, Notwithstanding all I see Bright and beautiful in thee. That thou lovest, oh my belle ! Thy enchanting self too well, To give love enough to me, Ellen Evelina. Thou hast chosen, so have I, Ellen Evelina; In thy track I'll cease to run, I will end as I begun : She whom I would choose for life, For my love, my friend, my wife, Must have heart and thou hast none, Ellen Evelina. BROKEN SILENCE. By J. WESTLAND MARSTON, author of the "Patrician's Daughter." OH, break not her silence ! she listens to voices Whose tones are a feeling, whose echoes a thrill; And more than in aught that is real she rejoices In dreams which presage what they ne'er can fulfil, The dreams, the first fond dreams of love ! 72 SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. Oh, break not her silence! her heart is replying To chords that are swept hy a breeze from the past; No hymn in the present can match with that sighing O'er hopes which, though vanished, were dear to the last, The hopes, the first bright hopes of youth ! Thou can'st not break her silence! no word that is spoken Can now wound her ear, no regret dim her eyes; Thou can'st not break her silence ; yet, hark ! it is broken, " Come hither, come hither," a voice from the skies! " Come hither," a voice from the skies ! BLUE IS THE SKY. G. MEKEDITH. BLUE is the sky, blue is thine eye, Which shall I call Heaven? Star is there, and soul is here, Tell me which is Heaven? I cannot know unless thou say, So kin are both in orb and ray, So full of heavenly feature ; The fall of dews, the flush of hues, The tenderness of softened views, Lovely alike by night or day, And both of heavenly nature. Blue is the sky, blue is thine eye, Both would image Heaven! Light is there, and love is here, Each the child of Heaven ! Oh! might it be, and may it be, That I who worship Heaven in thee, May so fulfil thy mission, That light and love from Heaven above, And star and soul, my bridal dove, May blend and open Heaven to me. Thro' thy celestial vision !, SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. ?3 LOVE IN HATE. CHARLES MACKAY. ONCE I thought I could adore him, Rich or poor, beloved the same; Now I hate him, and abhor him Now I loathe his very name Spurn 'd at, when I sued for pity Robb'd of peace and virgin fame. If my hatred could consume him, Soul and body, heart and brain, If my will had power to doom him To eternity of pain; I would strike and die, confessing That I had not lived in vain. Oh, if in my bosom lying, I could work him deadly scathe ! Oh, if I could clasp him, dying, And receive his parting breath In one burst of burning passion I would kiss him into death ! I would cover with embraces Lips, that once his love confessed, And that falsest of false faces, Mad, enraptured, unrepressed ; Then in agony of pity I would die upon his breast. LOVE NOT. HON. Mas. NORTON. LOVE not, love not, ye hapless sons of clay ; Hope's gayest wreaths are made of earthly flow'rs Things that are made to fade and fall away, When they have blossom'd but a few short hours. Love not, love not. Love not, love not: the thing you love may die May perish from the gay and gladsome earth; The silent stars, the blue and smiling sky, Beam on its grave as once upon its birth. Love not, love not. 74 SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. Love not, love not: the thing you love may change, The rosy lip may cease to smile on you; The kindly beaming eye grow cold and strange, The heart still warmly beat, yet not be true. Love not, love not. Love not, love not : oh ! warning vainly said, In present years, as in the years gone by ; < Love flings a halo round the dear one's head; Faultless, immortal till they change or die. Love not, love not. PASTORAL AND UNDER the title of Pastoral and Rural Songs maybe included some of the most beautiful specimens of our early poetical literature. Vast quantities of these songs, once popular among the English people, anterior to the reign of Elizabeth, have perished altogether. Many of them in all probability were never committed to the custody of print and paper, and escaped with the breath of the wandering minstrels who composed and sang them. Others, again, at a somewhat later period, fared but little better at the hands of Time: " ' Edax carminum,' as well as ' Edax rerum.' The ancient songs of the people," says DTsraeli the elder, "perished by having been printed in single sheets, and by their humble purchasers having no other library to preserve them than the walls on which they pasted them. Those we now have consist of a succeeding race of ballads." The pastoral love- 76 PASTORAL SONGS. songs, which we owe chiefly to the writers of the age of the Stuarts, include few compositions so beautiful as Marlowe's ' Passionate Shepherd to his Love," and Sir Walter Raleigh's ' Reply." The shepherds of that race of lyrists were, with few exceptions, merely stage shepherds in the usual theatrical costume, and the shepherdesses were " ladies of quality," dressed up for the occasion. Even Shakspeare himself, who touched or bor- rowed nothing that he did not improve, could make little of this kind of composition. It was not true to nature ; and yet it con- tinued in that decline of literary taste which began, in the reign of Charles the Second, to have charms for writers, readers, and singers. Such ditties as the following had far more vitality than merit : " By a murmuring stream a fair shepherdess lay, ' Be so kind, ye nymphs,' I oft heard her say, ' Tell Strephon I die, if he passes this way, And that love is the cause of my mourning. False shepherds, that tell me of beauty and charms, You deceive me, for Strephon's cold heart never warms ; Yet bring me the swain, let me die in his arms, Oh ! Strephon's the cause of my mourning.' " At last, according to the most popular of all the pastorals, the nymph died, and Strephon came by : " Her eyes were scarce closed when her Strephon came by, He thought she'd been sleeping, and softly drew nigh ; But finding her breathless, ' Oh, heavens !' he did cry, 'Ah, Chloris! the cause of my mourning.' " Ultimately, Strephon himself, smitten with remorse, fell down by her side, and died : " On her cold snowy breast he lean'd down his head, And expired, the poor Strephon, with mourning." The satire of Pope, and the verses of the Lady of Quality, (which we have previously quoted in our remarks prefacing the " Songs of the Affections") did not produce much effect in putting a stop to this affectation, and the age persisted in looking with favour upon pastoral love songs, in which all lovers were repre- sented as shepherds and shepherdesses, billing and cooing amid PASTORAL SONGS. 77 their sheep, by the side of purling brooks. Corydon wept among his flocks because Chloe or Phoebe was cruel, and Chloe called upon echo to repeat the name of Corydon the falsest of shep- herds and of men. The pastoral mania lasted for a consider- able time ; and traces of it are to be found in the popular songs of the last half of the eighteenth and the commence- ment of the present century, when it finally went out, much to the gratification of all lovers of true poetry. The rural songs, that make no attempt at describing the loves and sorrows of Strephon and the Amyntas, and the other masquerading shepherds are of a higher class than these. The pleasures and enjoyments of a country life have always been, and always will be, themes for song ; and descriptions of natural scenery, intermingled with those sentiments and feelings which they naturally prompt gaiety to the gay, and sadness to the sad will ever inspire the true lyrist. The songs of a succeeding age, like those which charmed our forefathers and which charm ourselves, must draw largely from this source ; and the banish- ment of wine as a subject of lyric eulogy, and of paganism as a subject of illustration for modern thought and feeling, will increase the number of those purer compositions, which the present age has begun to insist upon, and which the next will insist upon more strongly. 78 PASTORAL SONGS. THE PASSIONATE SHEPHERD TO HIS LOVE. CHBISTOPHEH MARLOWE, born 15 , died 1593. COME live with me, and be my love, And we will all the pleasures prove, That vallies, groves, and hills and fields, The woods or steepy mountains yields. And we will sit upon the rocks, Seeing the shepherds feed their flocks, By shallow rivers, to whose falls, Melodious birds sing madrigals. And I will make thee beds of roses, And a thousand fragrant posies ; A cap of flowers and a kirtle, Embroidered o'er with leaves of myrtle. A gown made of the finest wool, "Which from our pretty lambs we pull ; Fair lined slippers for the cold, With buckles of the purest gold. PASTORAL SONGS. A belt of straw and ivy buds, With coral clasps and'amb'er studs; And if these pleasures may thee move, Come live with me, and be my love. f The shepherd swains shall dance and sing, For thy delight, each May morning ; If these delights thy mind may move, Then live with me and be my love. THE NYMPH'S REPLY. SIB WALTER RALEIGH, born 1552, died 1618. 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 wither'd, 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. But could Youth last, could Love still breed Had Joy no date, had Age no need ; Then those delights my mind might move, To live with thee, and be thy love. , / Originally printed with the signature of "Ignotus." 80 PASTORAL SONGS. PHILLIS THE FAIR, NICHOLAS BRETON, born 1555, died 16 . ON a hill there grows a flower, Fair befall the dainty sweet! By that flower, there is a bower Where the heavenly muses meet. In that bower there is a chair, Fringed all about with gold, Where doth sit the fairest fair, That ever eye did yet behold. It is Phillis, fair and bright, She that is the shepherd's joy, She that Venus did despite, And did blind her little boy. Who would not that face admire? Who would not this saint adore? Who would not this sight desire? Though he thought to see no more. Thou that art the shepherd's queen, Look upon thy love-sick swain; By thy comfort have been seen, Dead men brought to life again. THE DISCONSOLATE SHEPHERD. From the " Passionate Pilgrim." WILLIAM SHAKSPEARE. MY flocks feed not, My ewes breed not, My rams speed not, All is amiss: Love is dying, Faith's defying, Heart's denying, Causes of this. All my merry jigs are quite forgot, All my lady's love is lost, God wot: Where her faith was firmly fix'd in love, There a nay is placed without remove. PASTORAL 30NOS. 81 One silly cross Wrought all my loss; O frowning fortune, cursed, fiekle dame! For now I see, Inconstancy More in women than in men remain. In black mourn I, All fears scorn I, . Love hath forlorn me, Living in thrall: Heart is bleeding, All help needing, (0 cruel speeding!) Fraughted with gall. My shepherd's pipe can sound no deal, My wether's bell rings doleful knell; My curtail dog that wont to have play*d, Plays not at all, but seems afraid; With sighs so deep, Procures to weep, In howling-wise, to see my doleful plight How sighs resound Through heartless ground, Like a thousand vanquished men in bloody fight! Clear well spring not, Sweet birds sing not Forth; they die: Herds stand weeping, Flocks all sleeping, Nymphs back peeping Fearfully. All the pleasure known to us poor swains, All our merry meetings on the plains, All our evening sport from us is fled, All our love is lost; for love is dead. Farewell, sweet lass, Thy like ne'er was For a sweet content, the cause of all my moan; Poor Coridon Must live alone, Other help for him I see that there is none E 2 82 PASTORAL SONGS. YE LITTLE BIRDS THAT SIT AND SING. From THOMAS HKVWOOD'S " Fayre Maide of the Exchange," 1616. YE little birds that sit and sing Amidst the shady vallies, And see how Phillis sweetly walks Within her garden alleys; Go, pretty birds, about her bower, Sing, pretty birds, she may not lower, Ah me ! methinks, I see her frown, Ye pretty wantons warble. Go tell her through your chirping bills, As you by me are bidden, To her is only known my love, Which from the world is hidden. Go, pretty birds, and tell her so, See that your notes strain not too low, For still methinks I see her frown, Ye pretty wantons warble. Go tune your voices' harmony, And sing I am her lover ; Strain loud and sweet, that every note With sweet content may move her; And she that hath the sweetest voice, Tell her I will not change my choice ; Yet still methinks I see her frown, Ye pretty wantons warble. fly, make haste, see, see she falls Into a pretty slumber; Sing round about her rosy bed, That waking, she may wonder. Sing to her 'tis her lover true That sendeth love by you and you ; And when you heur her kind reply, Return with pleasant warblings. PASTORAL SONGS. 83 WHAT PLEASURE HAVE GREAT PRINCES. From BTRD'S " Songs and Sonnets of Sadness and Pietie," 1588. WHAT pleasure have great princes, More dainty to their choice, Than herdmen wild, who careless, In quiet life rejoice, And fortune's fate not fearing, Sing sweet in summer morning? Their dealings plain and rightful, Are void of all deceit; They never know how spiteful It is to kneel and wait; On favourite presumptuous, Whose pride is vain and sumptuous. All day their flocks each tendeth, At night they take their rest, More quiet than he who sendeth His ship into the East; Where gold and pearl are plenty, But getting very dainty. For lawyers and their pleading They 'steem it not a straw; They think that honest meaning Is of itself a law, Where conscience judgeth plainly; They spend no money vainly. Oh, happy who thus liveth, Not caring much for gold, With clothing which sufficeth To keep him from the cold, Though poor and plain his diet, Yet merry it is, and quiet. 84 PASTORAL SONGS. WELCOME, WELCOME, DO I SING. WILLIAM BROWNE, born 1590, died 1645. From a MS. copy of his poems in the Lamdownc collection. 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 bear The delightful nightingale. Welcome, welcome, then I sing, &c. Love, that looks still on your eyes, Though the winter have begun To benumb our arteries, Shall no want the summer's sun. Welcome, welcome, then I sing, &c. Love, that still may see your cheeks, Where all rareness still reposes, 'Tis a fool, if e'er he seeks Other lilies, other roses. Welcome, welcome, then I sing, &c. 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, &c. Love that question would anew, What fair Eden was of old, Let him rightly study you, And a brief of that behold. Welcome, welcome, then I sing, Ac. We are indebted to Browne for having preserved in his " Shepherd's Pipe," a curious poem by Occleve. Mr. Warton conceives his works tu " have been well known to Milton," and refers to " Britannia's Pastorals" for the assemblage of circumstances in a morning landscape as were brought together more than thirty years afterwards by Milton in a passage of L'Allegro, which has been supposed to serve us the repository of imagery on that subject for all succeeding poets -LLIS. PASTORAL SOXGS. INVITATION TO MAY. From THOMAS MOR LEY'S Ballets, 1595. Now is the month of raaying When merry lads are playing, Fa, la, la. Each with his bonny lass, Upon the greeny grass, Fa, la, la. The Spring, clad all in gladness, Doth laugh at winter's sadness, Fa, la, la. And to the bagpipe's sound The nymphs tread out their ground, Fa, la, la. Fye then! why sit we musing, Youth's sweet delight refusing? Fa, la, la. Say, dainty nymphs, and speak, Shall we play at barley-break? 1 Fa, la, la. THE SHEPHERD'S HOLIDAY. JAMES SHIRLEY, born 1596, died 1666. WOODMEN, shepherds, come away, This is Pan's great holiday; Throw off cares, With 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. 1 A game popular in the reign' of Queen Elizabeth, and peculiar to the May season of the year. 8fl PASTORAL SONGS. 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. THE PRAISE OF A COUNTRYMAN'S LIFE. JOHN CHALK HI 1. 1., born 1599, died 1679. OH, the sweet contentment The countryman doth find ! High trolollie, lollie, lol, high trolollie, lee. That quiet contemplation Possesseth all my mind, Then, care away, and wend along with me. For courts are full of flattery, As hath too oft been try'd; High trolollie, lollie, lol, high trolollie, lee. The city full of wantonness, And both are full of pride; Then, care away, and wend along with me. But, oh ! the honest countryman Speaks truly from his heart, High trolollie, lollie, lol, high trolollie, lee. His pride is in his tillage, His horses, and his cart; Then, care away, and wend along with me. Our clothing is good sheep-skins, Grey russet for our wives ; High trolollie, lollie, lol, high trolollie, lee. '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, High trol oil i e, lollie, lol, high trolollie, lee. No eu.peror so merrily Does i as his time away ; Then, care away, and wend along with me. PASTORAL SONGS. 8T To recompense our tillage The heavens afford us showers, High trolollie, lollie, lol, high trolollie, lee. 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, High trolollie, lollie, lol, high trolollie, lee. And with their pleasant roundelays Bid welcome to the spring; Then, care away, and wend along with me. This is not half the happiness The countryman enjoys; High, trolollie, lollie, lol, high trolollie, lee. Though others think they have as much, Yet he that says so, lies; Then, care away, and wend along with me. This song appears in Walton's Angler, 1653. So little was formerly known of this author, that it was supposed that his very name was the invention of Isaac Walton himself, and that Walton was the real author of nil the compositions to which it is attached. This, however, is not the fact, for " Chalkhili's" tomb of black marble is still to be seen on the walls of Winchester Cathedral, and .from this it appears that he died May 1079, aged 80. AMINTOR'S WELL-A-DAY. Dr. R. HUGHES; from Lawes's third book of Ayres, 1653. CHLORIS now thou art fled away, Amintor's sheep are gone astray, And all the joy he took to see His pretty lambs run after thee; Is gone, is gone, and he alway, Sings nothing now but well-a-day! His oaten pipe, that is thy praise Was wont to sing such roundelays, Is thrown away, and not a swain, Dares pipe, or sing within his plain; Tis death for any now to say, One word to him but well-a-day! PASTORAL SON08. The May-pole where thy little feet So roundly did in measures meet, Is broken down, and no content Comes near Amintor, since you went. All that I ever heard him say, Was Chloris, Chloris, well-a-day. Upon these banks you us'd to thread, He ever since hath laid his head, And whisper'd there such pining woe, As not a blade of grass will grow; O Chloris, Chloris, come away, And hear Amintor's well-a-day ! COLIN'S COMPLAINT. NICHOLAS Rows, 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, And the brook, in return to his pain, Ran mournfully murmuring by. Alas! silly swain that I was, Thus sadly complaining, he cried; 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 listen'd and cry'd when she sung, , Was nightingale ever so sweet! How foolish was I to believe She could dote on so slowly a clown, Or that her fond heart would 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 maidens in grey, Or live in a cottage on love? PASTORAL SONGS. 89 What though I have skill to complain, Tho' the muses my temples have crown 'd ; What tho' when they hear my soft strain, The virgins 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 the false maid. Tho' thro' the wide world I should range, 'Tis in vain from my fortune to fly, Twas her's 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 plain, And see me laid low in the ground: The last humble 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 talked of or seen, Unless when beneath the pale moon, His ghost shall glide over the green. 90 PASTORAL SONGS. AS I WALKED FORTH ONE SUMMER'S DAY. From PLAYFORD'S "Airs and Dialogues," 1676. As I walk'd 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, And nipping flowers low by the stalk, Such flowers as in the meadow grew, The deadman's thumb, and harebell blue; And as she pull'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 sigh'd, and wept, and wrung bar hands; Alas! alas! still sobbed she, Alas! none ever lov'd like me. When she had fill'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. THE SUN WAS SUNK BENEATH THE HILL. Anonymous but often attributed to JOHN GAY. THE sun was sunk beneath the hill, The western clouds were liu'd with gold, 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. PASTORAL SONGS. 01 Who seeks to pluck the fragrant rose, From the bare rock 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 women's 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. Then Sylvia! 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 ! 92 PASTORAL SONGS. THE SHEPHERD'S COMPLAINT. CHARLES HAMILTON (LORD BINNING), died 1732-3. DID ever swain a nymph adore As 1 ungrateful Nanny do? Was ever shepherd's heart so sore Was ever broken heart so true? My eyes are swell'd with tears; but she Has never shed a tear for me. If Nanny call'd, did Robin stay, Or linger when she bid me run? She only had the word to say, And all she asked was quickly done : I always thought on her, but she Would ne'er bestow a thought on me. To let her cows my clover taste, Have I not rose by break of day? When did her heifers ever fast, If Robin in his yard had hay? Though to ray fields they welcome were, I never welcome was to her! If Nanny ever lost a sheep, I cheerfully did give her two : Did not her lambs in safety sleep Within my folds in frost and snow? Have they not there from cold been free ? But Nanny still is cold to me. Whene'er I climb'd our orchard trees, The ripest fruit was kept for Nan; Oh, how those hands that drown'd her bees Were stung, I'll ne'er forget the pain ! Sweet were the combs, as sweet could be; But Nanny ne'er look'd sweet on me. If Nanny to the well did come, 'Twas I that did her pitchers fill; Full as they were, I brought them home; Her corn I earned to the mill. My back did bear her sacks; but she Would never bear the sight of me. PASTORAL SONGS. 93 To Nanny's poultry oats I gave, I'm sure they always had the best; Within this week her pigeons have Eat up a peck of peas at least; Her little pigeons kiss, but she Would never take a kiss from me. Must Robm always Nanny woo, And Nanny still on Robin frown? Alas, poor wretch ! what shall I do, If Nanny does not love me soon? If no relief to me she'll bring, I'll hang me in her apron string. DAME DURDEN. Anonymous. Date uncertain. DAME Durden kept five serving girls, To carry the milking pail; She also kept five labouring men To use the spade and flail. 'Twas Moll and Bet, and Doll and Kate, and Dorothy Draggletail, And John and Dick, and Joe and Jack, and Humphrey with his flail. 'Twas John kiss'd Molly, And Dick kiss'd Betty, And Joe kiss'd Dolly, And Jack kiss'd Katty, And Dorothy Draggletail, And Humphrey with his flail, And Kitty was a charming girl to carry the milking pail. Dame Durden in the morn so soon She did begin to call: To rouse her servants, maids and men, She then began to bawl. Twas Moll and Bet, and Doll and Kate, and Dorothy Draggletail, And John and Dick, and Joe and Jack, and Humphrey with his flail. Twas John kiss'd Molly, &c. 'Twas on the morn of Valentine, The birds began to prate, Dame Durden's servants, maids and men, They all began to mate. 04 PASTORAL SONGS. Twas Moll and Bet, and Doll and Kate, and Dorothy Draggletail, And John and Dick, and Joe and Jack, and Humphrey with his flail. 'Twas John kiss'd Molly, And Dick kiss'd Betty, And Joe kiss'd Dolly, And Jack kiss'd Katty, And Dorothy Draggletail, And Humphrey with his flail, And Kitty was a charming girl to carry the milking pail. THE CHOICE OF A RURAL WIFE. Anonymous ; about 1740. WOULD you choose a wife for a happy life, Leave the court, and the country take; Where Susan and Doll, and Nancy and Moll, Follow Harry and John, whilst harvest goes on, And merrily, merrily rake. PASTORAL SONGS. Leave the London dames, be it spoke to their shames, To lie in their beds till noon; Then get up and stretch, then paint too and patch, Some widgeon to catch, then look to their watch, And wonder they rose up so soon. Then coflee and tea, both green and bohea, Is served to their tables in plate; Where their tattles do run, as swift as the sun, Of what they have won, and who is undone, By their gaming and sitting up late. The lass give me here, though brown as my beer, That knows how to govern her house; That can milk her cow, or farrow her sow, Make butter or cheese, or gather green peas, And values fine clothes not a sous. This, this is the girl, worth rubies and pearl; This is the wife that will make a man rich; We gentlemen need no quality breed, To squander away what taxes would pay; In troth, we care for none such. JOHNNY AND JENNY. EDWARD MOOKK, bora 1712, died 1757. HE. LET rakes for pleasure range the town, Or misers dote on golden guineas ; Let plenty smile or fortune frown, The sweets of love are mine and Jenny's. SHE. Let wanton maids indulge desire; How soon the fleeting pleasure gone is! The joys of virture never lire, And such shall still be mine and Johnny's. BOTH. Together let us sport and play, And live in pleasure where no sin is ; The priest shall tie the knot to-day, And wedlock's bands make Johnny Jenny's. PASTORAL SONGS. HE. Let roving swains young hearts invade The pleasure ends in shame and folly; So Willy woo'd, and then betray 'd The poor believing simple Molly. SHE. So Lucy lov'd, and lightly toy'd, And laugh'd at harmless maids who marry, But now she finds her shepherd cloy'd, And chides too late her faithless Harry. BOTH. Together still we'll sport and play And live in pleasure where no sin is ; The priest shall tie the knot to-day, And wedlock's bands make Johnny Jenny's. PASTORAL SONGS. 97 HE. By cooling streams our flocks we'll feed, And leave deceit to knaves and ninnies, Or fondly stray where Love shall lead, And ev'ry joy be mine and Jenny's. SHE. Let guilt the faithless bosom fright, The constant heart is always bonny; Content, and peace, and sweet delight, And love, shall live with me and Johnny. BOTH. Together still we'll sport and play, And live in pleasure where no sin is; The priest shall tie the knot to-day, And wedlock's bands make Johnny Jenny's. In the year 1753 Mr. Moore commenced the weekly journal, entitled the " World," by Adam Fitzadam, in which he was assisted by Lord Chesterfield and others. This periodical was afterwards re-published in four volumes. 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 OWE ! F 2 PASTORAL SONGS. Oh ! may her choice be fix'd on me, Mine 's fix'd on her alone. Mr. Upton who wrote the above song his Christian name has not descended to posterity wrote many others for the convivial entertainments at Vauxhall Gardens towards the close of the last century. This song was long popularly ascribed to the Prince of Wales, afterwards George IV. THE FARMER'S SON. From the " Myrtle and the Vine, or Complete Vocal Library," 1800. GOOD people give attention, while I do sing in praise Of the happy situation we were in, in former days ; When my father kept a farm, and my mother milked her cow, How happily we lived then to what we do now. When my mother she was knitting, my sister she would spin, And by their good industry they kept us neat and clean; I rose up in the morning, with my father went to plough, How happily we lived then to what we do now. PASTORAL SONGS. 9!) My brother gave assistance in tending of the sheep, When tir'd with our labour, how contented we could sleep; Then early in the morning we again set out to plough, How happily we lived then to what we do now. Then to market with the fleece, when the little herd were shorn, And our neighbours we supplied with a quantity of corn, For half-a-crown a bushel we would sell it then I vow, How happily we Lived then to what we do now. I never knew at that time, go search the country round, That butter ever sold for more than fourpence per pound, And a quart of new milk for a penny, from the cow, How happily we lived then to what we do now. - How merry would the farmers then sing along the road, When wheat was sold at market for five pounds a load ; They'd drop into an ale-house, and drink " God speed" the plough, How happily we lived then to what we do now. A blessing to the squire, for he gave us great content, And well he entertained us, when my father paid his rent, 100 PASTORAL SONGS. With flaggons of good ale he'd drink, " Farmer, speed the plough,' How happily we lived then to what we do now. At length the squire died, Sir, ! bless his ancient pate, Another fill'd with pride came as heir to the estate, He took my father's farm away, and others too, I vow, Which brought us to the wretched state that we are in now. May Providence befriend us, and raise, some honest heart, The poor for to disburden, who long have felt the smart; To take the larger farms, and divide them into ten, That we may live as happy now as we did then. THE SUFFOLK YEOMAN'S SONG. J. HUGHES. GOOD neighbours, since you've knock'd me down, I'll sing you a song of songs the crown ; For it shall be to the fair renown Of a race that yields to no man: When order first on earth began, Each king was then a husbandman; He honour'd the plough, And the barley-mow, Maintained his court from off his farm, And kept all round him tight and warm, Like a right down Suffolk yeoman. The plough was then a nation's boast, And the pride of those who rul'd the roast ; And so felt one well worth a host A brave and a noble Roman. Some here may call to mind his name, But the thing is true, and it's all the same ; In war and debate He sav'd the state, He made the haughty foe to bow, And when all was done, went back to plough, Like a home-bred Suffolk yeoman. Said Horace, " I'm grown sick of court, And Caesar's crack champagne and port ; To sing and pun for great folks sport Is the life of a raree showman ; PASTORAL SONGS. I long, 'mid all the fun of Rome, To see how my farm goes on at home." Now his parts were renown 'd The world around, But he stuck to his turnips, wheat, and hops, And yet trust me if he grew such crops As a thriving Suffolk yeoman. Good freeholders, and stout were they Who form'd our warlike realm's array, When Europe trembled many a day At the name of an English bowman ; The arm that drew the gallant how Could pitch on the rick and barley-mow ; They lov'd the tough yew, And the spot where it grew, For that was near our good old church ; " And we'll never leave her in the lurch," Says my loyal Suffolk yeoman. When George the Third adorn 'd our throne, His manly ways were just our own ; Then Britons stood in arms alone, And defied each foreign foeman. The good old king, he fear'd his God, But he fear'd no man on earth who trod ; He lov'd his farm, And he found a charm In every useful Stirling art, And he wore the home-spun coat and heart Of a manly Suffolk yeoman. Since then the brave, the wise, and great, Have been plain folks of our estate, We claim a pride of ancient date, A pride that will injure no man; Though Scotch philosophers and Jews Would starve us out, and our name abuse, We'll stand by the king, The church, and each thing That our loyal fathers honour'd most; And such shall be the pride and boast Of a manly Suffolk yeoman. 102 PASTORAL SONGS. A WISH. SAMUEL ROGERS. MINE be a cot beside the hill; A bee-hive's hum shall soothe my ear; A willowy brook, that turns a mill, With many a fall shall linger near. The swallow, oft, beneath my thatch, Shall twitter near 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 dew; 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 swell the breeze, And point with taper spire to heaven. THE PLOUGHSHARE OF OLD ENGLAND. ELIZA COOK. THE sailor boasts his stately ship, the bulwark of the isle ! The soldier loves his sword, and sings of tented plains the while ; But we will hang the ploughshare up within our fathers' halls, And guard it as the deity of plenteous festivals. We'll pluck the brilliant poppies, and the far-famed barley-corn, To wreathe with bursting wheat-ears that outshine the saffron morn, Well crown it with a glowing heart, and pledge our fertile land, The ploughshare of Old England, and the sturdy peasant band! The work it does is good and blest, and may be proudly told, We see it in the teeming barns, and fields of waving gold : Its metal is unsullied, no blood-stain lingers there : God speed it well; and let it thrive unshackled everywhere. The bark may rest upon the wave, the spear may gather dust; But never may the prow that cuts the furrow lie and rust. Fill up, fill up, with glowing heart, and pledge our fertile land, The ploughshare of Old England, and the sturdy peasant band ! HE Bacchanalian and Convivial Songs of the English people are not of a high order of merit. The most elegant of them are translations, or paraphrases, of the Odes of Anacreon, the only author who has eminently succeeded in wreath- ing the flowers of fancy around the drinking-cup, or in rendering even toler able, to the taste of a refined and civilized people, the indulgence of intoxication. But in borrowing from Anacreon, the 104 CONVIVIAL SONGS. English song-writers, with the exception of Thomas Moore, who added new graces even to Anacreon, too often forgot, or were unable to borrow his elegance and wit. The result is, that the greater portion of English drinking-songs would be more appropriate to the worship of Silenus than of Bacchus. " Plumpy Bacchus with pink eyne," as depicted by Shakspeare, has been the divinity of song-writers, not one of whom seems to have had any idea of the intellectual Dionysus of the Greeks. Bacchus has been degraded by the moderns into a kind of superhuman Falstaff a sensual monster abusing the gifts of heaven instead of using them. Some of the early drinking-songs are valuable for preserving traits of national manners, which might otherwise have been lost. Bishop Still's song of " Good Ale " is one of this class ; and a few others are entitled to the same praise. But in the age suc- ceeding that of Elizabeth when the simple and the natural in poetry of all kinds began to decay the convivial songs, like those in celebration of the passion of love, partook largely of the my- thological character ; and for more than two centuries, the vulgar- ized Bacchus, who sits astride upon a barrel on public-house signs, was the deity of English topers, and presided over their feasts. The " Muses " and the " Graces " were appealed to, to lend their aid; and "Care," an impersonation unknown to the ancients, was evermore called upon to let herself be drowned in the bowl. It was not till near the end of the eighteenth century that the song-worship of Bacchus began to decline ; and when mythology went out of fashion in love songs, it was to a great extent driven from the drinking-songs also. Baron Dawson, the author of a lyric, entitled "Squire Jones," published in the seventeenth cen- tury, though among the first to ridicule the constant mythological allusions of the versifiers, fell into the same fault himself when he spoke of drinking: "Ye poets who write, And brag of your drinking famed Helicon's brook, Though all ye get by 't Is a dinner ofttimes, In reward for your rhymes ; With Humphrey the Duke, CONVIVIAL SONGS. 105 Learn Bacchus to follow, And quit your Apollo ; Forsake all the muses those senseless old crones, Our jingling of glasses Your rhyming surpasses, When crowned with good claret and humpers, Squire Jones !" But the complaint which we feel bound to reiterate against the vulgarity of tone, and the unworthiness of the sentiments in our convivial songs is not a new one. " There is nothing," says Hugh Kelly, in the " Babbler " (No. 30), quoted in the introduction to the Rev. H. Plumptre's Collection of Songs (1805), "at which I am more offended than the unpardonable vein of ignorance and brutality so generally introduced in our drinking-songs ; nor any- thing, in my opinion, which throws a greater reflection upon the understanding of a sensible society. If we examine the principal number of these pretty compositions, we shall find that absolute intoxication is recommended as the highest felicity in the world, and receive the most positive assurances of being upon an equality with angels, the very moment we sink ourselves into a situation considerably lower than men. " It has been justly observed, that every nation, in proportion as it is civilized, has abolished intemperance in wine, and conse- quently must be barbarous in proportion as it is addicted to excess . The remark, I am rather apprehensive, will be found no very great compliment to the people of this kingdom. We are apt to place good fellowship in riot, and have but too natural a promptitude in imagining that the happiness of an evening is promoted by an extravagant circulation of the glass ; hence are our songs of festivity (as I have already taken notice) fraught with continual encomiums on the pleasures of intoxication, and the whole tribe of bacchanalian lyrics perpetually telling us how wonderfully sensible it is to destroy our senses, and how nothing can be more rational in a human creature than to drink till he has not left himself a single glimmer of reason at all. " But if, abstracted from the brutal intention of our drinking- songs in general, we should come to consider their merit as literary performances, how very few of them should we find worth a station on a cobbler's stall, or deserving the attention of an 106 CONVIVIAL SONGS. auditory at Billingsgate! The best are but so many despicable strings of unmeaning puns, and ill-imagined conceits, and betray not more the ignorance of their encouragers, than the barrenness of their authors. Let me only ask the warmest advocate for this species of composition what, upon a cool reflection, he thinks of the following song : ' By the gaily circling glass We can see how minutes pass By the hollow cask we're told How the waning night grows old ; Soon, too soon, the busy day Calls us from our sports away. What have we with day to do? Sons of Care 'twas made for you.' " The foregoing little song, though one of the least offensive in the whole round of &bon vivant collection, has neither thought nor expression to recommend it. and can, when sung, be termed no more than an agreeable piece of impertinence, calculated to supply a want of understanding in a company. 1 forbear to mention 'The Big-bellied Bottle,' and a variety of similar produc- tions, which are universally known, and deserve to be universally despised." The most notable attempt to reform the character of English drinking-songs was made by the Captain Morris, already mentioned, a gentleman whose good voice, pleasing manners, and readiness to sing for the amusement of the brilliant society in which he moved, made him a great favourite in the days of the Regency. Although he did not banish Bacchus altogether from his effusions, he strove to impart a more modern and natural, as well as more gentlemanly tone, to the drink-lyrics which he wrote and sung ; but his compositions of this class possessed no other merit. They were deficient in strength, originality, and wit, and were quite worthy, in most respects, of being attributed to "the Lady of Quality" if that eminent "Myth" could be supposed to have so far forgotten herself as to have written for the mess-table " Come sip thy glass, my rosy lass, 'Twill prove a bless 'd infusion, 'Twill witch thy sight with wild delight, And brighten Love's illusion. CONVIVIAL SONGS. 107 'Twill round thee ope a world of Hope, A heaven of sweet emotion, Then let's not blight the sure delight For want of true devotion." If such stanzas as these were more decorous, they were certainly not so vigorous, or by any means so appropriate for their purpose as the roystering ditties which they were intended to supersede, and it was not until Richard Brinsley Sheridan first, and Thomas Moore afterwards, lent their genius to to celebrate the glories of the wine-cup, that poetry was in any way concerned in the drinking-songs of the English nation. An exception must be made in favour of some of the Sea Songs of the Dibdins, in which the daring conviviality of the English sailor is admirably represented. The taste for bacchanalian songs, like the practice of bacchanalian excess, has long been on the decline. If an apology be necessary for presenting the reader with so many compositions of this class, it must be found in the fact that a collection of English songs would be incomplete without them and that as illustrative not only of the history of manners, but of the history of literature, it was necessary to include a few specimens of them. 108 CONVIVIAL SONOS. w .': GOOD ALE. By JOHN STILL, Bishop of Bath and Wells, born 1542, died 1607. I CANNOT eat but little meat, My stomach is not good; But sure, I think that I can drink With any that wears a hood. Tho' I go bare, take ye no care, I am nothing a cold, I stuff my skin so full within Of jolly good ale and old. Back and side go bare, go bare, Both foot and hand go cold; But, belly, God send thee good ale enough, Whether it be new or old. I love no roast but a nut-brown toast, And a crab laid in the fire; A little bread shall do me stead, Much bread I don't desire. No frost, no snow, no wind I trow Can hurt me if I wold, I am so wrapt, and thoroughly lapt Of jolly good ale and old. Back and side go bare, go bare, Both foot and hand go cold; But, belly, God send thee good ale enough Whether it be new or old. CONVIVIAL SONGS. 109 And Tib, my wife, that as her life Loveth well good ale to seek, Full oft drinks she, till you may see The tears run down her cheek; Then doth she troul to me the bowl, Even as a maltworm should, And saith " Sweetheart, I take my part Of this jolly good ale and old." Back and side go hare, go bare, Both foot and hand go cold ; But, belly, God send thee good ale enough, Whether it be new or old. Now let them drink till they nod and wink, Even as good fellows should do; They shall not miss to have the bliss Good ale doth bring men to; And all poor souls that have scoured bowls, Or have them lustily troul'd, , God save the lives of them and their wives, Whether they be young or old. Back and side go bare, go bare, Both foot and hand go cold; But, belly, God send thee good ale enough, Whether it be new or old. The comedy of " Gammer Gorton's Needle," in which this song appears, was first acted in 1566, but not printed until 1575. " It is believed to have been, ' says Mr. Ellis, in his " Specimens of Ancient English Poetry," " the earliest English drama that exhibited any approaches to regular comedy." COME, THOU MONAECH OF THE VINE. From "Antony and Cleopatra," by WILLIAM SHAKSPEAKK, COME, thou monarch of the vine, Plumpy Bacchus with pink eyne, In thy vats our cares be drowned, With thy grapes our hairs be crowned Cup us till the world go round. 110 CONVIVIAL SONGS. THE THIRSTY EARTH. ABRAHAM COWLBT. THE thirsty earth drinks up the rain, And thirsts, and gapes for drink again ; The plants suck in the earth, and are With constant drinking fresh and fair. The sea itself (which one would think Should have but little need of drink) Drinks twice ten thousand rivers up, So fill'd that they o'erflow the cup. The busy sun (and one would guess By's drunken fiery face no less) Drinks up the sea, and when he's done, The moon and stars drink up the sun. They drink and dance by their own light, They drink and revel all the night : Nothing in nature's sober found, But an eternal health goes round. Fill up the bowl then, fill it high, Fill all the glasses here ; for why Should every creature drink but I ? Why, man of morals, tell me why ! Freely translated from Anacreon. THE LEATHER BOTTEL. From " The Antidote to Melancholy," 1682. TWAS God above that made all things, The heaven's, the earth, and all therein; The ships that on the sea do swim, To guard from foes, that none come in; And let them all do what they can, 'Tis but for one end the use of man. So I wish in heaVn his soul may dwell, That first found out the leather bottel. CONVIVIAL SONGS. Ill Now what do you say to these cans of wood? Oh no, in faith they cannot be good; For if the bearer fall by the way, Why on the ground his liquor doth lay: But had it been in a leather bottel, Although he had fallen all had been well. So I wish in heav'n his soul may dwell That first found out the leather bottel. Then what do you say to these glasses fine? Oh, they shall have no praise of mine; For if you chance to touch the brim, Down falls the liquor and all therein; But had it been in a leather bottel, And the stopple in, all had been well. So I wish in heav'n his soul may dwell That first found out the leather bottel. Then what do you say to these black-pots three? If a man and his wife should not agree, Why they'll tug and pull till their liquor doth spill: In a leather bottel they may tug their fill, And pull away till their hearts do ache, And yet their liquor no harm can take. So I wish in heav'n his soul may dwell, That first found -out the leather bottel. Then what do you say to these flagons fine? Oh, they shall have no praise of mine; For when a lord is about to dine, And sends them to be filled with wine, The man with the flagon doth run away, Because it is silver most gallant and gay. So I wish in heav'n his soul may dwell That first found out the leather bottel. A leather bottel we know is good Far better than glasses or cans of wood, For when a man's at work in the field, Your glasses and pots no comfort will yield; 112 CONVIVIAL SONGS. But a good leather bottel standing by, Will raise his spirits, whenever he's dry. So I wish in heav'n his soul may dwell, That first found out the leather bottel. At noon the haymakers sit them down, To drink from their bottels of ale nut-brown; In summer too, when the weather is warm, A good bottel full will do them no harm. Then the lads and the lasses begin to tattle, But what would they do without this bottel? So I wish in heav'n his soul may dwell, That first found out the leather bottel. There's never a Lord, an Earl, or Knight, But in this bottel doth take delight ; COSYIVIAL SOSG8. 113 For when he's hunting of the deer, He oft doth wish for a bottel of beer. Likewise the man that works in the wood, A bottel of beer will oft do him good. So I wish to heav'n his soul may dwell, That first found out the leather bottel. And when the bottel at last grows old, And will good liquor no longer hold, Out of the side you may make a clout, To mend your shoes when they're worn out; Or take and hang it up on a pin, 'Twill serve to put hinges and odd things in. So I wish in heav'n his soul may dwell, That first found out the leather botteL BEGONE, DULL CAKE. BEGOKE, dull care, I prythee begone from me, Begone, dull care, thou and I shall never agree; Long time thou hast been tarrying here, And fain thou wouldst me kill; But i' faith, dull care, Thou never shalt have thy wilL Too much care will make a young man gray; And too much care will turn an old man to clay. My wife shall dance, and I will sing, So merrily pass the day; For I hold it still the wisest thing To drive dull care away. This popular ditty is as old as the year 1687, when it first appeared in " Playford'* Musical Companion." DOWN AMONG THE DEAD MEN. Temp. Queen Anne. Anonymous. HERE'S a health to the Queen, and a lasting peace, To faction an end, to wealth increase; Come, let's drink it while we have breath, For there's no drinking after death. And he that will this health deny, Down among the dead men let him lie. o 2 114 CONVIVIAL SONGS. Let charming beauty's health go round, In whom celestial joys are found, And may confusion still pursue The senseless woman-hating crew, And they that woman's health deny, Down among the dead men let them lie. In making Bacchus' joy, 111 .roll, Deny no pleasure to my soul; Let Bacchus' health round briskly move, For Bacchus is a friend to Love. And he that will this health deny, Down among the dead men let him lie. May love and wine their rights maintain, And their united pleasures reign, While Bacchus' treasure crowns the board, We'll sing the joys that both afford ; And they that wont with us comply, Down among the dead men let him lie. HOW STANDS THE GLASS AROUND? Anonymous. From a half sheet song, with the music, printed about the year 1710. How stands the glass around? For shame, ye take no care, my boys! How stands the glass around? Let mirth and wine abound! The trumpets sound : The colours flying are, my boys, To fight, kill, or wound: May we still be found Content with our hard fare, my boys, On the cold ground. Why, soldiers, why Should we be melancholy, boys! Why, soldiers, why? Whose business 'tis to die? What sighing? fie! CONVIVIAL SONGS. 115 Shun fear, drink on, be jolly, boys ! 'Tis he, you, or I. Cold, hot, wet, or dry, We're always bound to follow, boys, And scorn to fly. 'Tis but in vain, (I mean not to upbraid you, boys) 'Tis but in vain For soldiers to complain; Should next campaign Send us to Him that made us, boys, We're free from pain; But should we remain, A bottle and kind landlady Cures all again. This is commonly called General Wolfe's song, and is said to have been sung by him on the night before the battle of Quebec. COME NOW ALL YE SOCIAL POWERS. Altered and enlarged from the Finale of BICKERSTAFFE'S "School of Fathers.' COME now all ye social powers, Shed your influence o'er us; Crown with joy the present hours, Enliven those before us: Bring the flask, the music bring, Joy shall quickly find us; Sport and dance, and laugh, and sing, And cast dull care behind us. Love, thy godhead I adore, Source of generous passion; Nor will we ever bow before Those idols, Wealth and Fashion. Bring the flask, &c. Why the plague should we be sad, Whilst on earth we moulder? Rich or poor, or grave or mad, We every day grow older. Bring the flask, &c. 116 CONVIVIAL SONGS. Friendship ! oh, thy smile's divine ! Bright in all its features; What bui friendship, love, and wine, Can make us happy creatures. Bring the flask, &c. Since the time will pass away Spite of all our sorrow, Let's be blithe and gay to-day, And never mind to-morrow. Bring the flask, &c. WHEN I DRAIN THE ROSY BOWL. I'rora the works of Anacreon, Sappho, &e., translated by the Rev. Francis Fawkes. 8vu. London: 1761. WHEN I drain the rosy bowl, Joy exhilarates the soul; To the Nine I raise my song Ever fan-, and ever young. When full cups my cares expel, Sober counsel, then farewell! Let the winds that murmur, sweep All my sorrows to the deep. When I drink dull time away, Jolly Bacchus, ever gay, Leads me to delightful bowers, Full of fragrance, full of flowers. When I quaff the sparkling wine, And my locks with roses twine; Then I praise life's rural scene, Sweet, sequester'd, and serene. When I drink the bowl profound, (Richest fragrance flowing round) And some lovely nymph detain, Venus then inspires the strain. When from goblets deep and wide, I exhaust the gen'rous tide, All my soul unbends I play Gamesome with the young and gay. CONVIVIAL SOXGS. 117 BUSY, CURIOUS, THIRSTY FLY. BUSY, curious, thirsty fly, Drink with me, and drink as I ; Freely welcome to my cup, Could 'st thou sip and sip it up. Make the most of life you may, Life is short, and wears away. Both alike are mine and thine, Hastening quick to their decline; Thine 's a summer, mine no more, Though repeated to threescore; Threescore summers, when they're gone, Will appear as short as one, Yet this difference we may see, 'Twixt the life of man and thee : Thou art for this life alone, Man seeks another when 'tis gone ; And though allow'd its joys to share, 'Tis virtue here, hopes pleasure there. The old sheet copies of this ballad say, " Made extempore by a gentleman, occasioned by a fly drinking out of his cup of ale." The gentleman was Vincent Bourne, and the date of the production 1744. It was set to music as a duet for two voices by Dr. Greene. The last verse in the above copy was added by the Her. J. Plumtree., WITH AN HONEST OLD FRIEND. HKNBY CARET. WITH an honest old friend, and a merry old song, And a flash 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. CONVIVIAL SONGS. WHAT IS WAR AND ALL ITS JOYS? THOMAS CHATTEBTON, born 1752, died 1770. WHAT is war and all its joys? Useless mischief, empty noise ; What are arms 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, give me love and wine, Happiness is only thine. A POT OF PORTER, HO! From the "Myrtle and the Vine," a Complete Vocal Library, voL ii. A.D. 1800 WHEN to Old England I come home, Fal lal, fal lal la! When joy to see the tankard foam. Fal lal, fal lal la ! When treading London's well-known ground, If e'er I feel my spirits tire, I haul my sail, look up around, In search of Whitbread 's best entire. I spy the name of Culvert, Of Curtis, Cox, and Co. I give a cheer and bawl for't, " A pot of porter, ho !" When to Old England I come home, What joy to see the tankard foam ! With heart so light, and frolic high, I drink it off to Liberty ! Where wine or water can be found, Fal lal, fal lal la ! I've travell'd far the world around, Fal lal, fal lal la! CONVIVIAL SONGS. 119 Again I hope before I die, Of England's can the taste to try; For, many a league I'd go about, To take a draught of Giffbrd's stout: I spy the name of Trueman, Of Maddox, Meux, and Co. The sight makes me a new man, A pot of porter, ho ! Many" of the once celebrated firms of brewers recorded in this song, brew no more for the British public, and their names have scarcely any other record. Some of them still remain, however, with increased and increasing popularity. ENGLISH ALE. From the "Myrtle and the Vine," vol. i"., A.D. 1800. D'YE mind me? I once was a sailor, And in different countries I've been, If I lie may I go for a tailor ! But a thousand fine sights I have seen: I've been cramm'd with good things like a wallet, And I've guzzled more drink than a whale, But the very best stuff to my palate, Is a glass of your English good ale. Your doctors may boast of their lotions, And ladies may talk of then- tea; But I envy them none of their potions, A glass of good stingo for me! The doctor may sneer if he pleases, But my recipe never will fail, For the physic that cures all diseases, Is a bumper of good English ale. When my trade was upon the salt ocean,; Why there I had plenty of grog, And I lik'd it, because I'd a notion It set one's good spirits agog; But since upon land I've been steering, Experience has altered my tale, For nothing on earth is so cheering As a bumper of English good ale. 120 CONVIVIAL SONGS. HERE'S TO THE MAIDEN OF BASHFUL FIFTEEN. R. B. SHERIDAN. From the Comedy of" The School for Scandal" HERE'S to the maiden of bashful fifteen, Now to the widow of fifty ; Here's to the flaunting extravagant qaean, And here's to the housewife that's thrifty : Let the toast pass, Drink to the lass, I warrant she'll prove an excuse for the glass. Here's to the charmer whose dimples we prize, Now to the damsel with none, sir; Here's to the girl with a pair of blue eyes, And now to the nymph with but one, sir : Let the toast pass, &c. Here's to the maid with a bosom of snow, Now to her that's as brown as a berry; Here's to the wife with a face full of woe, And now to the damsel that's merry: Let the toast pass, Ac. For let her be clumsy, or let her be slim, Young or ancient, I care not a feather; So fill up a bumper, nay fill to the brim, And let us e'en toast 'em together: Let the toast pass, &c. THIS BOTTLE'S THE SUN OF OUR TABLE. R B. SHERIDAN. From the Comic Opera of "The Duenna." THIS bottle's the sun of our table, His beams are rosy wine; We planets that are not able Without his help to shine. Let mirth and glee abound! You'll soon grow bright With borrow'd light, And shine as he goes round. COKV1VIAL SONGS. 121 THE BROWN JUG. From the Opera of the " Poor Soldier." JOHN O. KEEVFE. DEAR Tom, this brown jug tliat now foams with mild ale (Out of which I now drink to sweet Nan of the vale), Was once Toby Filpot, a thirsty old soul As e'er crack'd a bottle, or fathom'd a bowl. In boozing about 'twas his pride to excel, . And among jolly topers he bore off the bell. It chanced, as in dog-days he sat at his ease In his flow'r-woven arbour, as gay as you please, With a friend and a pipe, puffing sorrow away, And with honest old stingo was soaking Ms clay, His breath-doors of life on a sudden were shut, And he died full as big as a Dorchester butt. His body, when long in the ground it had lain, And Time into clay had resolved it again, A potter found out in its covert so snug, And with part of fat Toby he form'd tliis brown jug, Now, sacred to friendship, to mirth and mild ale So here's to my lovely sweet Nan of the vale. THE WINDS WHISTLE .COLD. From the Opera of " Guy Mannering." DANIEL TERRY, born 1780, died 1828. THE winds whistle cold, And the stai-s glimmer red, The flocks are in fold, . : I And the cattle in shed. When the hoar frost was chill Upon moorland and hill, And was fringing the forest bough, t t Our fathers would troul The bonny brown bowl, And so will we do now, Jolly hearts! -',"' And so will wo do .now. * H 122 CONVIVIAL SONGS. Gaffer Winter may seize Upon milk in the pail; 'Twill be long ere he freeze The bold brandy and ale; For our fathers so bold, They laugh'd at the cold, When Boreas was bending his brow For they quaff 'd mighty ale, And they told a blythe tale, And so will we do now, Jolly hearts! And so will we do now. A GLASS IS GOOD. F rora the Farce of the " Rival Soldiers." A GLASS is good, and a lass is good, And a pipe is good in cold weather ; The world is good, and the people are good, And we're all good fellows together. A bottle is a very good thing, With a good deal of wine in it ; A song is good, when a body can sing, And to finish, we must begin it For a glass is good, and a lass is good, And a pipe is good in cold weather; The world is good, and the people are gooil And we're all good fellows together. A friend is good when you're out of good luck, For that is the time time to try him ; For a justice, good, the haunch of a buck, With such a good present you'll buy him ; A fine old woman is good when she's dead; A rogue very good, for good hanging; A fool is good, by the nose to be led, 4 And my song deserves a good banging. For a glass is good, and a lass is good, And a pipe is good in cold weather ; The world is good, and the people are good, And we're all good fellows together. CONVIVIAL SONGS. 123 MAY WE NE'ER WANT A FRIEND, NOR A BOTTLE TO GIVE HIM. THOMAS DIBDIK. SINCE the first dawn of reason that beam'd on my mind And taught me how favoured by fortune my lot, To share that good fortune, I still was inclined, And impart to who wanted, what I wanted not. "J'is a maxim entitled to ev'ry one's praise, When a man feels distress, like a man to relieve him, And my motto, tho' simple, means more than it says, " May we ne'er want a friend, or a bottle to give him." The heart by deceit or ingratitude rent, Or by poverty bow'd, tho' of evils the least, The smiles of a friend may invite to content, And we all know content is an excellent feast; Tis a maxim entitled to ev'ry one's praise, When a man feels distress, like a man to relieve him, And my motto, tho' simple, means more than it says, " May we ne'er want a friend, nor a bottle to give him. A BUMPER OF GOOD LIQUOR. From the " Humming Bird. 1 ' Canterbury, 178*. A BUMPER of good liquor Will end a contest quicker Than justice, judge, or vicar: So fill a cheerful glass, And let good humour pass: But if more deep the quarrel, Why sooner drain the barrel, Than be the hateful fellow That's crabbed when he's mellow. A bumper, &c. 21 CONVIVIAL SONGS. FILL THE GOBLET AGAIN. LORD BYKON. FILL the goblet again! for I never before Felt the glow which now gladdens my heart to its core; Let us drink! who would not? since, through life's varied round, In the goblet alone no deception is found. I have tried in its turn all that life can supply, I have basked in the beam of a dark rolling eye, I have loved! who has not? but what heart can declare That pleasure existed while passion was there? In the days of my youth when the heart's in its spring And dreams that affection can never take wing I had friends! who has not? but what tongue will avow, That friends, rosy wine! are so faithful as thou? The heart of a misti-ess some boy may estrange, Friendship shifts with the sunbeam, thou never canst change; Thou grow'st old, who does not? but on earth what appears, Whose virtues, like thine, still increase with its years? Yet, if blest to the utmost that love can bestow, Should a rival bow down to our idol below, We are jealous! who's not? thou hast no such alloy, For the more that enjoy thee, the more we enjoy. When the season of youth and its vanities past, For refuge we fly to the goblet at last; There we find, do we not? in the flow of the soul, That truth as of yore, is confined to the bowl. When the box of Pandora was open'd on earth, And Misery's triumph commenced over Mirth, Hope was left, was she not? but the goblet we kiss, And care not for Hope, who are certain of bliss. Long life to the grape! for when summer is flown, The age of our nectar shall gladden our own, We must die! who must not? May our sins be forgiven, And Hebe shall never be idle in Heaven. CONVIVIAL, SONGS. 125 THE BEST OF ALL GOOD COMPANY. BARRY CORNWALL. SING ! Who sings To her who weareth a hundred rings? Ah ! who is this lady fine ? The Vine, hoys, the Vine! The mother of mighty Wine. A roamer is she O'er wall and tree, And sometimes very good company. Drink! Who diinks To her who blusheth and never thinks? Ah ! who is this maid of thine ? The Grape, boys, the Grape ! O, never let her escape Until she be turned to Wine! For better is she Than Vine can be, And very, very good company! Dream ! Who dreams Of the God that governs a thousand streams? Ah! who is this Spirit fine? 'Tis Wine, boys, 'tis Wine! God Bacchus, a friend of mine. O, better is he Than Grape or tree, And the best of all good company. A SONG AFTER A TOAST. C. MACKAV. From " Legends of the Isles," 1845. IF he, to whom this toast we drink, Has brought the needy to his door; Or raised the wretch from ruin's brink From the abundance of his store ; If he has sooth'd the mourner's woe, Or help'd young merit into fame, This night our cups shall overflow In honour of his name. 126 CONVIVIAL SONGS. If he be poor, and yet has striven To ease the load of human care ; If to the famish'd he has given One loaf that it was hard to share ; If, in his poverty erect, He never did a deed of shame, Fill high! we'll drain in deep respect A bumper to his name. But rich or poor, if still his plan Has been to play an honest part ; If he ne'er failed his word to man, Or broke a trusting woman'a heart; If emulation fire his soul To snatch the meed of virtuous fame ; Fill high! we'll drain a flowing bowl In honour of his name. THE DREAM OF THE REVELLER. CHARLES MAC KAY. AROUND the board the guests were met, The lights above them beaming, And in their cups, replenish 'd oft, The ruddy wine was streaming; Their cheeks were flushed, their eyes were bright, Their hearts with pleasure bounded, The song was sung, the toast was given, And loud the revel sounded. I drained a goblet with the rest, And cried, " Away with sorrow ! Let us be happy for to-day What care we for the morrow?" But as I spoke, my sight grew dim, And slumber deep came o'er me, And 'mid the whirl of mingling tongues, This vision passed before me. CONVIVIAL SONGS. 127 if ethought I saw a demon rise : He held a mighty bicker, Whose burnished sides ran brimming o'er With floods of burning liquor, Around him pressed a clamorous crowd, To taste this liquor greedy, But chiefly came the poor and sad, The suffering and the needy; All those oppress'd by grief or debt, The dissolute, the lazy, Blear-eyed old men and reckless youths, And palsied women crazy ; "Give, give!" they cried, "give, give us drink, To drown all thought of sorrow; If we are happy for to-day, We care not for to-morrow ! The first drop warmed their shivering skins, And drove away their sadness ; The second lit their sunken eyes, And filled their souls with gladness ; The third drop made them shout and roar, And play each furious antic; The fourth drop boiled their very blood; And the fifth drop drove them frantic: "Drink!" said the demon, "drink your fill! Drink of these waters mellow ! They'll make your eye-balls sear and dull, And turn your white skins yellow; They'll fill your homes with care and grief, And clothe your backs with tatters; They'll fill your hearts with evil thoughts^ But never mind what matters? Though virtue sink, and reason fail, And social ties dissever, I'll be your friend in hour of need, And find you homes for ever; For I have built three mansions high, ^ Three strong and goodly houses, To lodge at last each jolly soul, Who all his life carouses. CONVIVIAL SONGS. The first it is a spacious house, To all hut sots appalling, Where, by the parish bounty fed, Vile, in the sunshine crawling, The worn-out dninkard ends his days, And eats the dole of others, A plague and burthen to himself, An eye-sore to his brothers. The second is a lazar house, Bank, fetid, and unholy; Where, smitten by diseases foul, And hopeless melancholy, The victims of potations deep Pine on a couch of sadness, Some calling death to end their pain, And others wrought to madness ; The third and last is black and high, The abode of guilt and anguish, And full of dungeons deep and fast, Where death-doomed felons languish ; So drain the cup and drain again, One of my goodly houses, Shall lodge at last each jolly soul Who to the dregs carouses!" But well he knew that demon old How vain was all his preaching, The ragged crew that round him flocked Were heedless of his teaching; Even as they heard his fearful words, They cried, with fearful laughter, ' : Out on the fool who mars to-day With thoughts of an hereafter! We care not for thy houses three; We live but for the present; And merry will we make it yet And quaff our bumpers pleasant." Loud laughed the fiend to hear them speak, And lifting high his bicker, " Body and soul are mine, " said he ; g * "111 have them both for liquor" MORAL AND SATIRICAL SONGS. AMONG all nations in which poetry has been cultivated, song writers have ever found abundance of exercise in their vocation in adapting to music the expression of moral sentiment, or in making the satire of manners more agreeable, more popular, and more permanently useful, by the union of poetry and music. Some of the most beautiful songs in the English language belong to this class, and there has been no song- writer worthy of the name who has not occasionally forsaken the amatory, con- vivial, or patriotic departments of his art long erroneously considered by false critics to be the only legitimate spheres of song to praise virtue, to condemn vice, to hold folly up to ridicule, and to depict the good or ill manners of society. The songs of this description are exceedingly numerous, and are of every degree of merit and demerit, ranging from the broadest comedy to the seriousness of the sermon, and even of the hymn. The vanity of human life ; the instability of greatness ; H 2 130 MORAL AND SATIRICAL SONGS. the charms of friendship ; the pleasures of temperance ; the blessings of a contented mind ; the consolations of old age, and a thousand similar topics, are true sources of inspiration for the lyrist ; while subjects of more public interest the growth or decay of national virtue, and the condition, hopes, aspirations, and fears of the people in general, or of large and important sections of them, afford in like manner abundant opportunities for the moral or satirical song writer. "Poets," as Mr. Emerson finely and truly says, " should be lawgivers : that is, the boldest lyric inspi- ration should not chide or insult, but should commence and lead the civil code and the days work. It was in reference to this class of songs that Fletcher, of Saltouu, uttered the famous dictum not his own on the importance of song-writing. In his " Account of a conversation concerning the right regulation of Governments for the common good of mankind," he complains that " the poorer sort of both sexes are daily tempted to all manner of wickedness by infamous ballads sung in every corner of the streets. I knew," he adds, " a very wise man that believed if a man were permitted to make all the ballads, he need not care who should make the laws of a nation. And we find that most of .the ancient legislators thought they could not well reform the manners of any city without the help of a lyric, and sometimes of a dramatic poet." The extension of education and the triumphs of the printing press have rendered the labours of the moral and satirical song writers of less value than in the time of the ancient legislators, or than in those times, comparatively recent, when Fletcher of Saltoun wrote ; but even in our day, a false error may be propped up by a song, and a great truth advanced by the same agency. So that the dictum still retains a portion of its ancient value. The moral and satirical songs are here included together ; for if satire be not moral it is an abuse ; and the lessons of morality have often a better chance of being effective, if sharpened by judicious satire. There aro vast numbers of political songs and ballads of this class, which have been produced from the days of the civil wars to our own, which would alone fill many interesting volumes valuable for the light they would throw upon the contemporary history of the period at which they MORAL AND SATISICAL SONGS. 131 were issued, or for their description of costume or of manners. Some of the best and more permanently pleasing of the ancient compositions of this class are here selected, together with a few of the modern songs, which have become popular. WOMEN ARE BEST WHEN THEY ARE AT REST. Anonymous. Originally printed in 1559-60. WOMEN are best when they are at rest; But when is that, I pray ? By their good will they are never still, By night and eke by day. If the weather is bad, all day they gad, They heed not wind or rain; And all their gay gear they ruin or near: For why they not refrain. Then must they chat of this and that; Their tongues also must walk: Wheresoever they go they alway do so, And of their bad husbands talk. When cometh the night, it is never right, But ever somewhat wrong; If husbands be weary, they are so merry, They never cease one song. Then can they chide, while at their side, Their husbands strive to sleep; "Why, how you snore! go lie on the floor." Such is the coil they keep. So women are best when they are at rest, If you can catch them still ; Cross them, they chide, and are worse, I have tried, If you grant them their will. Give them then- way, they still say, nay, And change their mind with a trice; Let them alone, or you will own That mine was good advice. 132 MORAL AND SATIRICAL SONGS. THE CUCKOO'S SONG. Anonymous. Originally printed in 1566. FULL merrily sings the cuckoo Upon the beechen tree; Your wives you well should look to, If you take advice of me. Cuckoo! cuckoo! alack the morn, When of married men Full nine in ten Must be content to wear the horn. Full merrily sings the cuckoo Upon the oaken tree ; Your wives you well should look to, If you take advice of me. Cuckoo ! cuckoo ! alack the day, For married men But now and then Can 'scape to bear the horn away. Full merrily sings the cuckoo Upon the ashen tree ; Your wives you well should look to, If you take advice of me. Cuckoo ! cuckoo ! alack the noon, When married men Must watch the hen, Or some strange fox will steal her soon. Full merrily sings the cuckoo Upon the alder tree ; Your wives you well should look to, If you take advice of me. Cuckoo ! cuckoo ! alack the eve, When married men Must bid good den To such as horns to them do give. Full merrily sings the cuckoo Upon the aspen tree; Your wives you well should look to, If you take advice of me. MORAL AND SATIRICAL SONGS. 133 Cuckoo ! cuckoo ! alack the night When married men ^ Again and again Must hide their horns in their despite. The reader will notice the resemblance between this song and the following by Shakespere " When Daisies Pied," &c. Probably Shakespere was indebted to the anonymous author for the idea. " WHEN DAISIES PIED." WILLIAM SHAKSPERE. WHEN daisies pied, and violets blue, And lady-smocks all silver white, And cuckoo-buds, of yellow hue, Do paint the meadows with delight : 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 shepherds 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 ! word of fear, Unpleasing to a married ear! THE CHARACTER OF A HAPPY LIFE. SIB HEXBY WOTTON. How happy is he born and taught, That serveth not another's will ; Whose armour is his honest thought, And simple truth his utmost skill. MORAL AMD SATIRICAL SONGS. Whose passions not his masters are, Whose soul is still prepar'd for death; Untied unto the world by care Of public fame or private breath. Who envies none that chance doth raise, Nor vice hath ever understood ; How deepest wounds are given by praise, Nor rules of state, but rules of good. Who hath his life from rumours freed, Whose conscience is his strong retreat ; Whose state can neither flatterers feed, Nor ruin make oppressors great. Who God doth late and early pray More of his grace than gifts to lend : And entertains the harmless day With a religious book or friend. This man is freed from servile hands, Of hope to rise, or fear to fall ; Lord of himself, though not of lands ; And having nothing, yet hath all. THE CONTENTED MAN'S SONG. From HUGH COMPTON'S " Pierides, or the Muses Mount," 1658. I HAVE no riches, neither know I where the mines of silver grow ; The golden age I cannot find, Yet there is plenty in my mind; 'Tis wealth I crave, 'tis wealth that I require, Yet there's no wealth to fill my vain desire, Nor hopes thereof to still my craving lyre. What shall I do in such a case? I am accounted mean and base : Both friends and strangers frown on me, 'Cause I am gall'd with poverty. Well, let them frown; yet I will not lament, Nor value them ; though fortune has not lent To me her blessing, yet I am content. MORAL AND SATIRICAL SONGS. 135 WHY SO PALE AND WAN? SIR JOHN SUCKLING. WHY so pale and wan, fond lover ? Prithee, why so pale? Will, 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 for shame, this will not move, This cannot take her ; If of herself she will not love, Nothing can make her. The devil take her ! DEATH'S FINAL CONQUEST. JAMES SHIRLEY; born 1594, died 1666. THE glories of our hlood and state Are shadows, not substantial things ; There is no armour against fate : Death lays his icy hands on kings : Sceptre, 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 kill; 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. 136 MORAL AND SATIRICAL SONGS. The garlands wither on your brow Then boast no more your mighty deeds ; Upon death's temple altar now, See where the victor-victim bleeds : All heads must come To the cold tomb : Only the actions of the just Smell sweet, and blossom in the dust. WHEN THIS OLD CAP WAS NEW. Anonymous. A. D. 1666. (From a black-letter copy among the Roxburgh Songs and Ballads.) WHEN this old cap was new 'T is since two hundred year-r- No malice then we knew, But all things plenty were : All friendship now decays, (Believe me, this is true) Which was not in those days, When this old cap was new. The nobles of our land Were much delighted then To have at their command A crew of lusty men ; Which by their coats were known, Of tawny, red, or blue, With crests on their sleeves shown, When this old cap was new. Now pride hath banish'd all, Unto our land's reproach, When he whose means is small Maintains both horse and coach ; Instead of an hundred men, The coach allows but two ; This was not thought on then, When this old cap was new. MORAL AND SATIBICAL SONGS. Good hospitality Was cherish'd then of many ; Now poor men starve and die, And are not help'd by any ; For charity waxeth cold, And love is found in few ; This was not in time of old, When this old cap was new. 137 Where'er you travell'd then, You might meet on the way Brave knights and gentlemen, Clad in their country grey, That courteous would appear, And kindly welcome you ; No Puritans then were, When this old cap was new. Our ladies, in those days, In civil habit went ; Broad-cloth was then worth praise, And gave the best content : French fashions then were scorn'd, Fond fangles then none knew ; Then modesty women adorn'd, When this old cap was new. I 188 MORAL AND SATIRICAL SONGS. A nvin might then behold, At Christmas, in each hall, Good fires to curb the cold, And meat for great and small ; The neighbours friendly bidden, And all had welcome true ; The poor from the gates not chidden, When this old cap was new. Black-jacks to every man Were fill'd with wine and beer ; No pewter pot, nor can, In those days did appear : Good cheer in a nobleman's house Was counted a seemly show ; We wanted not brawn nor souse, When this old cap was new. We took not such delight In cup* of silver fine; None, under the degree of knight, In plate drank beer or wine : Now each mechanical man Hath a cupboard of plate for shew, Which was a rare thing then, When this old cap was new. No captain then caroused, Nor spent poor soldier's pay ; They were not so abused, As they are at this day ; Of seven days they make eight, To keep them from their due ; Poor soldiers had their right, When this old cap was new. Which made them forward still To go, although not prest ; And going with good will, Their fortunes were the best ; Our English then, in fight, Did foreign foes subdue ; And forced them all to flight, When this old cap was new. MORAL AND SATIRICAL SONGS. 139 God save our gracious King, And send him long to live ! Lord ! mischief on them bring ; That will not their alms give, But seek to rob the poor Of that which is their due : This was not in time of yore, When this old cap was new. TOBACCO IS AN INDIAN WEED. THIS Indian weed, now withered quite, Though green at noon, cut down at night, Shows thy decay; All flesh is hay: Thus think, and smoke tobacco The pipe so lily-like and weak, Does thus thy mortal state bespeak: Thou art e'en such, Gone with a touch. Thus think, and smoke tobacco And when the smoke ascends on high, Then thou behold'st the vanity Of worldly stuff, Gone with a puff. Thus think, and smoke tobacco. 140 MORAL AND SATIRICAL SONGS. And when the pipe grows foul within, Think on thy soul defiled with sin; For then the fire It does require. Thus think, and smoke tobacco. And see'st the ashes cast away: Then to thyself thou mayest say, That to the dust Return thou must. Thus think, and smoke tobacco. SECOND PART. WAS this small plant for thee cut down? So was the plant of great renown, Which Mercy sends For nobler ends. Thus think, and smoke tobacco. Doth juice medicinal proceed From such a naughty foreign weed? Then what's the power Of Jesse's flower? Thus think, and smoke tobacco. The promise, like the pipe, inlays, And by the mouth of faith conveys What virtue flows From Sharon's rose. Thus think, and smoke tobacco. In vain the unlighted pipe you blow, Your pains in outward means are so, 'Till heavenly fire Your heart inspire. Thus think, and smoke tobacco. The smoke like burning incense towers; So should a praying heart of yours, With ardent cries, Surmount the skies. Thus think, and smoke tobacco. MORAL AND SATIUICAL SONGS. 141 THE VICAR OF BRAY. IN good King Charles's golden days, When loyalty no harm meant, A zealous high churchman I was, And so I got preferment : To teach my flock I never miss'd, Kings are hy God appointed, And damn'd are those that do resist, Or touch the Lord's anointed. CHORDS. And this is law I will maintain Until my dying day, sir : That whatsoever king shall reign, I '11 be the vicar of Bray, sir. When royal James ohtain'd the crown, And Popery came in fashion, The penal laws I hooted down, And read the Declaration : The Church of Rome I found would fit Full well my constitution ; And had become a Jesuit But for the Revolution. And this is law, &c. When William was our king declared, To ease the nation's grievance, With this new wind about I steer'd, And swore to him allegiance ; Old principles I did revoke, Set conscience at a distance ; Passive obedience was a joke, A jest was non-resistance. And this is law, &c. When gracious Anne became our Queen, The Church of England's glory, Another face of things was seen, And I became a tory : Occasional conformists base, I damn'd their moderation ; And though the Church in danger was By such prevarication. And this is law, &c. 42 MORAL AND SATIRICAL SONGS. When George in pudding-time came o'er, And moderate men look'd big, sir, I turn'd a cat-in-pan once more, And so became a whig, sir ; And thus preferment I procured, From our new faith's defender ; And almost ever day abjured The Pope and the Pretender. And this is law, &c. Tli' illustrious House of Hanover, And protestant Succession ; To these I do allegiance swear While they can keep possession : For in my faith and loyalty ; I never more will faulter, And George my lawful king shall be Until the times do alter. And this is law, &c. " The Vicar of Bray, in Berkshire," says D'Israeli, in his " Curiosities of Litera- ture," " was a Papist, under the reign of Henry the Eighth, and a Protestant under Edward the Sixth. He was a Papist again under Mary, and once more became a Protestant in the reign of Elizabeth. When this scandal to the gown was re- proached for his versatility of religious creeds, and taxed for being a turn-coat, and an inconstant changeling, as Fuller expresses it, he replied : " Not so, neither ; for if I changed my religion, I am sure I kept true to my principle, which is to live and die the vicar of Bray." " Pendleton, the celebrated Vicar of Bray, " says ano- ther statement, which has recently gone the round of the newspapers, subse- quently became rector of St. Stephen's, Walbrook. It is related that in the reign of Edward VI., Lawrence Sanders, the martyr, an honest but mild and timorous man, stated to Pendleton his fears that he had not strength of mind to endure the persecution of the times, and was answered by Pendleton that " he would see every drop of his fat and the last morsel of his flesh consumed to ashes, ere he would swerve from the faith then established." He, however, changed with the times, saved his fat and his flesh, and became rector of St. Stephen's, whilst the mild and diffident Sanders was burnt in Smithfleld." In a note in Nichols* Select Poems, 1782, vol. 8, p. 234, it is stated that The gong of the Vicar of Bray " is said to have been written by an officer in Colonel Fuller's regiment, in the reign of King George the First. It is founded on an historical fact; and though.it reflects no great honour on the hero of the poem, is humour- ously expressive of the complexion of the times, in the successive reigns from Charles the Second to George the First." Extract of a Letter from Mr. Brome, to Mr. Rawlins, dated June '14, 1735: "* * I have had a long chase after the Vicar of Bray on whom the proverb. Mr. Hearne though born in that neighbourhood, and should have mentioned it, (Leland, Itinerary Vol. v. p. 114), knew not who he was, but in his latl letter desired me if 1 found him out to let him know it Dr. Fuller in his Worthiet, and Mr. Ray from him, takes no notice of him in his Proverb*. I suppose neither knew his name. But I am informed it is SIMON ALLETN or AI.I.KN, who was Vicar of Bray about 1540, and died 1588, so was Vicar of Bray near 50 years. You now partake of the sport that has cost me some pains to take " Letters from the Bodleian, VoL ii. part 1, p. 100. MORAL AND SATIRICAL SONGS. 143 A MAN TO MY MIND. JOHN CUNNINGHAM, born A.D. 1728. SINCE wedlock 's in vogue, and stale virgins despis'd, To all bachelors, greeting, these lines are premis'd. I 'm a maid that would marry, but where shall I find (I wish not for fortune) a man to my mind ? Not the fair-weather fop, fond of fashion and lace ; Not the squire, that can wake to no joys but the chase; Not the free-thinking rake, whom no morals can bind; Neither this that nor t' other's the man to my mind. Not the ruby-fac'd sot, that topes world without end ; Not the drone, who can 't relish his bottle and friend ; Not the fool that 's too foni(^or the churl that ? s unkind ; Neither this that nor t otffbr's the man to my mind. Not the wretch with full bags, without breeding or merit ; Not the flash, that 's all fury without any spirit; Not the tine master fribble, the scorn of mankind ; Neither this that nor t' other's the man to my mind. But the youth in whom merit and sense may conspire, Whom the brave must esteem, and the fair should admire ; In whose heart love and truth are with honour combin'd ; This this and no other 's the man to my mind. This Author's Poems were printed in 1771, and dedicated to David Garrick. He was the Manager of the Newcastle Theatre, and an actor of some repute The exact year of his death is unknown, but it was prior to 1780. FROM THE COURT TO THE COTTAGE. HABBY CABEY ; died 1748. FROM the court to the cottage convey me away, For I 'm 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 retired from the noise of the town, I'll 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. 144 MORAL AND SATIRICAL SONGS. With a rural repast (a rich banquet for me), On a mossy green turf, near some shady old tree, The river's clear brink Shall afford me my drink, And temperance my friendly physician shall be. Harry Carey was the Author of a great number of Songs ; among others, of " Sally in our Alley " one of the most popular ever written, but a composition of no merit ; vulgar, and without a single sentiment to account for the favour with which it was received. Its popularity caused several imitations of it to be pub- lished, and Carey himself was among the first to set the example. In the Rev. James Plumptre's collection of Songs, the music revised by Dr. Hague, published at Cambridge in 1805, is a song called " Lovely Mary," by H. Carey, a close parody of " Sally in our Alley." THE FINE OLD ENGLISH GENTLEMAN I'LL sing you a good old song, Made by a good old pate, Of a fine old English gentleman, Who had an old estate ; And who kept up his old mansion At a bountiful old rate; With a good old porter to relieve The old poor at his gate. Like a fine old English gentleman, All of the olden time. His hall, so old, was hung around With pikes, and guns, and bows, And swords, and good old bucklers, That had stood against old foes; 'Twas there "his worship" held his state, In doublet and trunk hose ,' And quafFd his cup of good old sack, To warm his good old nose. Like a fine, &c. When Winter's cold brought frost and snow, He open'd house to all ; And though threescore and ten his years, He fleetly led the ball; MORAL AND SATIRICAL SONGS. 145 Nor was the houseless wanderer, E'er driven from his hall ; For, while he feasted all the great, He ne'er forgot the small. Like a fine, &c. But time, tho' sweet, is strong in flight, And years roll swiftly hy ; And Autumn's falling leaves proclaim'd The old man he must die ! He laid him down right tranquilly, Gave up life's latest sigh ; And mournful stillness reign'd around. And tears bedewed each eye, For this good, &c, Now surely this is better far Than all the new parade Of Theatres and Fancy Balls, " At Home," and Masquerade : And much more economical, For all his bills were paid. Then leave your old vagaries quite, And take up the old trade Of a fine old English gentleman, &c " The excellent song of the Old and Young Courtier, on which this is closely modelled, is," says Percy, in his Relics of Ancient English Poetry, " from an ancient black letter copy in the Pepys Collection, compared with another printed among some miscel- laneous poems and songs, in a book entitled ' The Prince d' Amour, 1660.' " FAIR EOSALIND. From "The Convivial Songster," 1782. FAIR Rosalind in woeful wise Six hearts has bound in thrall, As yet she undetermined lies Which she her spouse shall call. Wretched, and only wretched he To whom that lot shall fall ; For if her heart aright I see, She means to please them all ! i2 140 MORAL AND SATIRICAL SONGS. SIR MARMADUKE. GEOKOB COI.MAN " the younger," bom 1762, died 1836. SIR MARMADUKE was a hearty knight ; Good man ! old man ! He 's painted standing bolt upright, With his hose roll'd over his knee ; His perriwig 's as white as chalk ! And on his fist he holds a hawk, And he looks like the head Of an ancient family. His dining-room was long and wide ; Good man ! old man ! His spaniels lay by the fire-side; And in other parts, d'ye see Cross-bows, tobacco-pipes, old hats, A saddle, his wife, and a litter of cats ; And he look'd like the head Of an ancient family. He never turn'd the poor from the gate ; Good man ! old man ! But was always ready to break the pate Of his country's enemy. What knight could do a better thing, Than serve the poor, and fight for his king? And so may every head Of an ancient family. From the play of the " Iron Chest," founded upon Godwin's novel of " C;ilcl> Williams." CONTENT AND A PIPE. CONTENTED I sit with my pint and my pipe, Puffing sorrow and care far away, And surely the brow of grief nothing can wipe Like smoking and moist'ning our clay ; For, though liquor can banish man's reason afar, 'Tis only a fool or a sot, Who with reason or sense would be ever at war, And don't know when enough he has got For, though at my simile many may joke, Man is but a pipe and his life but smoke. MORAL AND SATIRICAL SONGS. 147 Yes, a man and a pipe are much nearer akin Than has as yet been understood, For. until with breath they are both fill'd within, Pray tell me for what are they good ? They, one and the other, composed are of clay, And, if rightly I tell nature's plan, Take but the breath from them both quite away, The pipe dies and so does the man : For, though at my simile many may joke, Man is but a pipe and his life but smoke. Thus I'm told by my pipe that to die is man's lot, And, sooner or later, die he must ; For when to the end of life's journey he's got, Like a pipe that's smoked out he is dust : So you, who would wish in your hearts to be gay. Encourage not strife, care, or sorrow, Make much of your pipe of tobacco to-day, For you may be smoked out to-morrow ; For, though at my simile many may joke, Man is but a pipe and his life but smoke. WHAT IS'T TO US WHO GUIDES THE STATE? From the " Convivial Songster," 1782. WHAT is't to us who guides the state ? Who's out of favour, or who's great ? Who are the ministers or spies ? Who votes for places, or who buys ? The world will still be ruled by knaves, And fools contending to be slaves. Small things, my friend, serve to support Life troublesome at best, and short. Our youth runs out, occasion flies, Grey hairs come on, and pleasure dies ; Who would the present blessing lose For empire which he cannot use ? 148 MORAL AND SATIRICAL SONGS. Kind Providence has ua supplied With what to others is denied ; Virtue, which teaches to condemn And scorn ill actions and ill men. Beneath this lime-tree's fragrant shade, On beds of flowers supinely laid, Let's then, all other cares remove, And drink and sing to those we love. ABRAHAM NEWLAND. Anonymous. From the " Whim of the Day" a Collection of Songs for 1800. THERE ne'er was a name so handed by fame, Thro' air, thro* ocean, and thro' land, As one that is wrote upon every bank-note, And you all must know Abraham Newland. Oh, Abraham Newland ! Notified Abraham Newland ! I have heard people say, sham Abraham you may, But you must not sham Abraham Newland. For fashion or arts should you seek foreign parts, It matters not wherever you land, Jew, Christian, or Greek, the same language they speak, That 's the language of Abraham Newland. Oh, Abraham Newland! Wonderful Abraham Newland! Tho' with compliments cramm'd, you may die and be d d, If you hav'n't an Abraham Newlaud. The world is inclin'd to think Justice is blind, Lawyers know very well they can view land; But, lord, what of what ' she '11 blink like a bat, At the sight of an Abraham Newlaud. Oh, Abraham Newland! Magical Abraham Newland ! Tho' Justice 'tis known can see through a millstone, She can't see through Abraham Newland. MORAL AND SATIRICAL SONGS. 149 Your patriots who bawl for the good of us all, Kind souls ! here like mushrooms they strew land, Tho' loud as a drum, each proves orator mum, If attack'd by stout Abraham Newland. Oh, Abraham Newland ! Invincible Abraham Newland ! No argument 's found in the world half so sound As the logic of Abraham Newland. The French say they 're coming, but sure they are humming ; I know what they want if they do land ; We '11 make their ears ring in defence of our King, Our country, and Abraham Newland. Oh, Abraham Newland ! Dai'ling Abraham Newland ! No tri-colour'd elf, nor the devil himself, Shall e'er rob us of Abraham Newland. Mr. Abraham Newland was cashier at the Bank of England towards the close of tne last centul'v. THE GUINEA. From the " Whim of the Day" for 1801. MASTER Abraham Newland's a monstrous good man, But when you've said of him whatever you can, Why all his soft paper would look very blue, If it warn't for the yellow boys pray what think you ? With Newland's own letters of credit proceed, Pray what would you do where the people can't read? But the worst of all dunces, we know very well, Only show them a guinea, I warrant they'll spell. Then your lawyers, and doctors, and such sort of folks, Who with fees and such fun, you know, never stand jokes, In defence of my argument try the whole rote, Sure they'll all take a guinea before a pound note. 150 MORAL AND SATIRICAL SONGS. The French would destroy all our credit and trade, If they were not unable, asham'd, or afraid. They may talk of our King, but let who will be victor, They'd be dev'lish glad to get hold of his picture. From a picture like this we true Britons can't part, While the glorious original reigns in our heart , Besides, with such tars as our navy can boast, And our King and his picture, we must rule the roast. 'TWAS MERRY IN THE HALL. OUR ancient English melodies Are banish'd out of doors, And nothing's heard in modern days, But Signoras and Signers. Such airs I hate Like a pig in a gate, Give me the good old strain, When 'twas merry in the hall, The beards wagg'd all, We shall never see the like again ! On beds of down our dandies lay, And waste the cheerful morn, While our squires of old would raise the day, With the sound of the bugle horn; And their wives took care The feast to prepare, For when they left the plain, Oh ! 'twas merry in the hall, The beards wagg'd all, We shall never see the like again ! 'Twas then the Christmas tale was told Of goblin, ghost, or fairy, And they cheer'd the hearts of the tenants old With a cup of good canary. And they each took a smack Of the cold black jack, MOKAL AND SATIRICAL SONGS. 151 Till the fire burn'd in each brain ; Oh ! 'twas merry in the hall, The beards wagg*d all, May we soon see the like again ! In the second part of Henry IV., Act v. Scene 3, occurs these lines : Be merry be merry my wife as all, For women are shrews, both short and tall, Tis merry in hall when Beards wag all And welcome merry shrove-tide. Mr. Warton in his " History of English Poetry" observes that this rhyme is found in a poem by Adam Davie called the " Life of Alexander" Merry swithe it is in halle. When the beards waveth alle. In the " Briefe Conceipts of English Pollicye," by William Stafford, 1581, it is asserted that it is a common proverb, " Tis merry in hall when Beards wag all." In the " Serving Man's Comfort, 1598," occurs the passage " which done, grace said and the table taken up, a song is sung, the under-song, or holding whereof, is ' It is merry in haull, where beards wag all.'" The song as now given is modern, and was introduced to the public by Mr. Murray, of the Edinburgh Theatre, who sang it in the character of Sir Mark Chase, in " A Roland for an Oliver." THE GOOD TIME COMING. CHARLES MACKAV. THERE'S a good time coming, boys, A good time coming : We may not live to see the day, But earth shall glisten in the ray Of the good time coming. Cannon-balls may aid the truth, But thought 's a weapon stronger ; We '11 win our battle by its aid ; Wait a little longer. There 's a good time coming, boys, A good time coming : The pen shall supersede the sword, And Right, not Might, shall be the lord, In the good time coming. Worth, not Birth, shall rule mankind, And be acknowledg'd stronger ; The proper impulse has been given ; Wait a little longer. 152 MORAL AND SATIRICAL SONGS There 's a good time coming, boys, A good time coming : War in all men's eyes shall be A monster of iniquity, In the good time coming. Nations shall not quarrel then, To prove which is the stronger ; Nor slaughter men for glory's sake ; Wait a little longer. There 's a good time coming, boys, A good time coming : Hateful rivalries of creed Shall not make their martyrs bleed In the good time coming. Religion shall be shorn of pride, And flourish all the stronger ; And Charity shall trim her lamp ; Wait a little longer. There 's a good time coming, boys, A good time coming : And a poor man's family Shall not be his misery In the good time coming. Every child shall be a help, To make his right arm stronger ; The happier he, the more he has ; Wait a little longer. There 's a good time coming, boys, A good time coming : Little children shall not toil, Under, or above, the soil, In the good time coming ; But shall play in healthful fields Till limbs and mind grow stronger ; And every one shall read and write ; Wait a little longer. MORAL AND SATIlUCAL SONGS. 1&3 There 's a good time coming, boys, A good time coming : The people shall be temperate, And shall love instead of hate, In the good time coming. They shall use, and not abuse. And make all virtue stronger; The reformation has begun ; tVait a little longer, There 's a good time coming, boys, A good time coming: Let us aid it all we can, Every woman, every man, The good time coming. Smallest helps, if rightly given, Make the impulse stronger ; 'Twill be strong enough one day ; Wait a little longer. These verses for it is doubtful whether they can strictly be called a song appeared originally in the second number of the " Daily News," as one of the series entitled " Voices from the Crowd." Being afterwards set to music, and the chorus or burden of the song as sung by Mr. Russell, being repeated by crowds of people at his entertainments, it enjoyed for two or three years a very great degree of popularity. KING DEATH. BARRY CORNWALL From "English Songs," 1834. KING DEATH was a rare old fellow He sat where no sun could shine, And he lifted his hand so yellow, And pour'd out his coal black wine. Hurrah ! for the coal black wine! There came to him many a maiden Whose eyes had forgot to shine, And widows with grief o'erladen, For a draught of his coal black wine. Hurrah ! &c. j 154 MORAL AND SATIRICAL SONGS. The scholar left all his learning, The poet his fancied woes, And the beauty her bloom returning, Like life to the fading rose. Hurrah! &e. All came to the rare old fellow, Who laugh'd till his eyes dropp'd brine, And he gave them his hand so yellow, And pledged them in Death's black wine. Hurrah! &c. LITTLE FOOLS AND GREAT ONES. CHARLES MACKAV. From "Legends of the Isles and other Poems," ] 845. WHEN at the social board you sit, And pass around the wine, Remember, though abuse is vile, That use may be divine : That Heaven in kindness gave the grape To cheer both great and small That little fools will drink too much, But great ones not at all. And when in youth's too fleeting hours You roam the earth alone, And have not sought some loving heart, That you may make your own : Remember woman's priceless worth, And think, when pleasures pall That little fools will love too much, But great ones not at all. And if a friend deceived you once, Absolve poor human kind, Nor rail against your fellow men With malice in your mind ; But in your daily intercourse, Remember, lest you fall That little fools confide too much, But great ones not at all. MOBAL AND SATIRICAL SONGS. In weal or woe, be truthful still, And in the deepest care, Be bold and resolute, and shun, The coward foe Despair. Let work and hope go hand in hand, And know, whete'er befal That little fools will hope too much, But great ones not at all. In work or pleasure, love or drink, Your rule be still the same Your work not toil, your pleasures pure, Your love a steady flame; Your drink not maddening, but to cheer; So shall your bliss not pall, For little fools enjoy too much, But great ones not at all. SEA SONGS. IT has often been asserted that England possessed neither national songs nor a national music ; but this, like many other assertions which have long held their ground in the opinions of those who, without thinking for themselves, are content to take their guidance from others, has no foundation in fact. That England possesses a music of her own, no one, who has studied the subject and remembers the compositions of Bull, Lawes, Arne, Purcell, and Shield, as well as the older melodies that float on the popular breath, and the newer compositions of the last and the present age, can doubt. That England possesses a multi- tude of songs which are national in the best sense of the word, every one who has read the Sea Songs of the two Dibdins, of Thomas Campbell, and of many other inferior writers, will strenuously maintain. The Sea Songs of Thomas Campbell are among the finest lyrical compositions in the English or any other language, and those of Charles Dibdin although written in a less elevated tone came fresh from, and appealed as freshly to the popular heart. SEA SOXG8. 157 If there be any excess of nationality among Englishmen, it leans towards the naval supremacy and glory of their country ; and from the time when Henry the Eighth sent his great fleet to Boulogne harbour till the day when Nelson fell at Trafalgar, the sea and its heroes have been sung amid the constant and hearty applause of the English multitude. Although very excellent sea songs were written before the time of Charles Dibdin, that writer living in a time when this country was engaged in a struggle, amid which the national safety from invasion depended almost entirely upon her " wooden walls " and her hardy mariners excelled all his predecessors, and made for himself so wide and enduring a reputation as to be entitled above any other man to the designation of the greatest of English song-writers. Dibdin's Sea Songs are intensely and entirely English ; they are English in their sound feeling ; in their contempt of danger ; in their rude gaiety and in their true-heartedness ; they are quite as English even in their prejudices, and would not suit the sailors of any other people. Every reader or hearer knows, though he may never have been at sea, though he may not have mixed with sailors, and though he may have received only the old traditionary or stage notions of their character, that the pictures are true, that the feelings are real, and such as no stranger could have invented; just, as sometimes in a portrait we know it to be a likeness, from those little peculiar traits which carry conviction, though at the same time we may never have seen the individual represented. Who can mistake the character of Dibdin's " Poor Jack?'' Who does not feel that he is a genuine Englishman, and a true sailor ? and that there is no sailor like him on the face of the ocean, either for his peculiar virtues or his peculiar failings? Almost eqtial to " Poor Jack," though of a different strain, are the songs " Nothing like Grog," and " The Sailor's Sheet Anchor," in which the philosophy of drinking is laid down with a quaintness of humour, aud a truthfulness of character, which, however objec- tionable in a moral point of view, are so real and life-like, that we can almost smell tar and tobacco, and the fumes of rum-and- water, as we read. Of a similar character, but more original and varied in its illustrations, is the song entitled, " Grieving's a Folly ;" in which 158 SEA SONGS. a sailor, after depicting the good and generous qualities of the many messmates with whom he had sailed, and describing the accidents that carried them from the world, winds up each doleful case by a reflection on the uselessness of sorrow, and a call to his listeners to be happy while they may. "Jack at the Windlass " is still better, and is just such homespun satire as the world would expect from a sailor with a keen eye for the ludicrous with a discrimination enabling him to detect cant and hypocrisy and with the easy good-nature that would rather laugh at follies, than grieve at them. Dibdin's hero loves his messmates all the more from not being such paragons of virtue as to be a thousand fold better than himself a kind of nature which ever} 7 one will re- cognise. "Lovely Nan," and "The Sailor's Journal," are speci- mens of another kind, the genuine affection of a simple heart, expressed in language that looks more truthful and sincere because tinctured with the idioms of his profession, and interlarded with sea similes. But every page of Charles Dibdin's excellent songs supplies a new variety ; and though every song seems the genuine expression of the sentiment of a British sailor that lived and moved and had his being among men, and not a stage-sailor, made up for show, there is but little repetition of sentiment or imagery. The poet had the greatest of all poetic arts in high perfec- tion that of thoroughly placing himself in the position of the characters he represented, and losing sight entirely of his own individuality in the portraiture of theirs. Charles Dibdin, though inferior in those lighter graces which charm the drawing-room, is, as a popular song-writer, by far the best our literature has produced. He has succeeded in pleasing the strong point in the national character, and though it is to be hoped for the sake of Great Britain, and of the world, and of the mighty interests of civilization involved in the continuance of peace between all nations, that these stirring songs may never more be needed to incite the courage of our mariners, it is certain that in the peaceful days which we have long enjoyed and which we still hope to enjoy, such sea songs as those of Dibdin will exercise a beneficial influence upon the character of the maritime population. If they now and then speak more warmly in praise of the sensual pleasures of the bottle than is desirable, it must be remem- SEA SONGS. 159 bered, in the author's defence, that intemperance at the time at which he wrote was a national vice in which the noble and the educated indulged to as great an extent as the ignoble and the ignorant that if common sailors drank, admirals did so likewise, and that both sailors and admirals were no worse than the general society high and low of their country. Dibdin, notwithstanding this fault of his age, has the most brilliant merits of his own. His songs invariably instil the sentiments of humanity, generosity, mercy, hospitality, truth, and kindliness of heart, a chivalrous though rough admiration for female virtue and loveliness, and a manly sincerity and independence of character. As Dibdin said of them himself, with honest pride, " His songs have been considered an object of national consequence ; they have been the solace of sailors in long voyages, in storms, and in battle ; and have been quoted in mutinies to the restoration of order and discipline." A few songs, appealing as strongly and as virtuously to the feelings of other classes of the people, would be a national benefit. THE MARINER'S SONG. From the Comedy of " Common Conditions." 1576. LUSTILY, lustily, lustily let us sail forth, The wind trim doth serve us, it blows from the north. All things we have ready and nothing we want To furnish our ship that rideth hereby; Victuals and weapons they be nothing scant, Like worthy mariners ourselves we will try. Lustily, lustily, &c. Her flags be new trimmed, set flaunting aloft, Our ship for swift swimming, oh ! she doth excel ; We fear no enemies, we have 'scaped them oft, Of all ships that swimmeth she beareth the belle. Lustily, lustily, &c. And here is a master excelleth in skill, And our master's mate he is not to seek ; And here is a boatswain will do his good will, And here is a ship, boy, we never had leak. Lustily, lustily, &c. If fortune then fail not, and our next voyage prove. We will return merrily, and make good cheer, And hold all together as friends liuk'd in love, The cans shall be fill'd with wine, ale, and beer. Lustily, lustily, &c. SEA SONGS. 161 THE MARINER'S GLEE. From " Deuteromelia ; or, the Second Part of Musick's Melodic/' &c., 1609. WE be three poor mariners, Newly come from the seas; We spend our lives in jeopardy, While others live at ease. Shall we go dance the round, a round, Shall we go dance the round; And he that is a bully boy, 1 Come pledge me on the ground. We care not for those martial men, That do our states disdain; But we care for those merchant men, That do our states maintain. To them we dance this round, a round, To them we dance this round ; And he that is a bully boy, Come pledge me on the ground. 1 A bully does not here mean a braggart, but a jolly fellow one fond of fun and frolic. " What say'st thou, bully Bottom ?" Midsummer Night's Dream. This and the preceding song are probably the earliest nautical songs in our language. YE GENTLEMEN OF ENGLAND. YE gentlemen of England, That live at home at ease,. Ah ! little do you think upon The dangers of the seas. Give ear unto the mariners, And they will plainly show All the cares and the fears When the stormy winds do blow. When the stormy, &c. If enemies oppose us When England is at war With any foreign nation, We fear not wound or scar ; j 2 J62 SEA SONGS. Our roaring guns shall teach 'em Our valour for to know, Whilst they reel on the keel, And the stormy winds do blow. And the stormy, &c. Then courage, all brave mariners, And never be dismay'd, Whilst we have bold adventurers, We ne'er shall want a trade : Our merchants will employ us To fetch them wealth, we know; Then be bold work for gold, When the stormy winds do blow. When the stormy, &c. TO ALL YOU LADIES NOW ON LAND. The EARL OF BOESET, born 1637, died 1706. To all you ladies now on 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, la, la, la, la. 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, la, la, la, la. SKA SONGS. i;:3 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: But let him know it is our tears Bring floods of grief to Whitehall-stairs. With a fa, la, la, la, la. 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, la, la, la, la. Let wind and weather do its worst, Be ye to us but kind; Let Dutchmen vapour, Spaniards curse, No sorrow shall we find : Tis then no matter how things go, Or who's our friend, or who's our foe. With a fa, la, la, la, la. To pass our tedious hours away, We throw a merry main, Or else at serious ombre play; But why shoiild we iu vain, Eah other's ruin thus pursue ? We were undone when we left you. With a fa, la, la, la, la. 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, la, la, la, la. When any mournful tune you hear, That dies in every note, As if it sigh'd with each man's care, For being so remote: 161 SEA SONGS. Then thiuk how often love we've made , To you, when all those tunes were played. With a fa, la, la, la, la. In justice you cannot refuse To think of our distress; When we, for hopes of honour, lose Our certain happiness: All those designs are but to prove Ourselves more worthy of your love. With a fa, la, la, la, la. 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, la, la. On the 2nd of January, 1665, Mr. Pepys went by appointment to dine with Lord Brouncker, at his house in the Piazza, Covent-garden. He says, " I received much mirth with a ballad I brought with me, made from the seamen at sea to their ladies in town ; saying Sir William Pen, Sir George Askue, and Sir George Lawson made it." In 1665, Lord Buckhurst attended the Duke of York as a volunteer in the Dutch war, and was in the battle of June 3, when eighteen Dutch ships were taken, fourteen others were destroyed, and Capdam, the Admiral, who engaged the Duke, was blown up beside him, with all his crew. On the day before the battle, he is said to have composed the celebrated song, " To all you ladies now on land," with equal tranquillity of mind and promptitude of wit. Seldom any splendid story is wholly true. I have heard, from the late Earl of Orrery, who was likely to have had good hereditary intelligence, that Lord Buckhurst had been a week employed upon it, and only re-touched or finished it on the memorable evening. But even this, whatever it may subtract from his facility, leaves him his courage. Johnsons Livet of the Poets. BLACK-EYED SUSAN. JOHN GAT, born 1688, died 1782. ALL in the Downs the fleet was moor'd, The streamers waving in the wind, When black-eyed Susan came on board, " where shall I my true-love find ? Tell me, ye jovial sailors, tell me true, Does my sweet William sail among your crew?' SEA SONGS. 1(55 William, who bigh upon the yard Rock'd by the billows to and fro, Soon as her well-known voice he heard, He sigh'd and cast his eyes below, The cord flies swiftly through his glowing hands, And quick as lightning on the deck he stands. " O Susan, Susan, lovely dear, My vows shall always true remain, Let me kiss off that falling tear, We only part to meet again ; Change as ye list, ye winds, my heart shall be The faithful compass that still points to thee. Believe not what the landsmen say, Who tempt with doubts thy constant mind ; They tell thee sailors, when away, In every port a mistress find; Yes, yes, believe them when they tell you so, For thou art present wheresoe'er I go." The boatswain gave the dreadful word, The sails their swelling bosom spread; No longer she must stay on board, They kissed, she sighed, he hung his head : Her lessening boat, unwilling rows to land, Adieu ! she cried, and waved her lily hand. HEARTS OF OAK. DAVID GARBiCK.bom 1716, died 1779. COME, cheer up, my lads ! 'tis to glory we steer, To add something more to this wonderful year : To honour we call you, not press you like slaves, For who are so free as the sons of the waves? Hearts of oak are our ships, Gallant tars are our men, We always are ready : Steady, boys, steady ! We'll fight and we'll conquer again and again. We ne'er see our foes but wish them to stay ; They never see us but they wish us away ; 1C6 SEA SONGS. If they run, why, we follow, or run them ashore ; For if they won't fight us we cannot do more. Hearts of oak, &c. They swear they'll invade us, these terrible foes ! They frighten our women, our children, and beaux ; But should their flat bottoms in darkness get o'er, Still Britons they'll find to receive them on shore. Hearts of oak, &c. Britannia triumphant, her ships sweep the sea ; Her standard is Justice her watch-word, " Be free.' Then cheer up, my lads ! with one heart let us sing, " Our soldiers, our sailors, our statesmen, and king." Hearts of oak, &c. THE LOSS OF THE ROYAL GEORGE. WILLIAM COWPEB, born 1731, died, 1800. TOLL for the brave! The brave that are no more! All sunk beneath the wave, Fast by their native shore. Eight hundred of the brave, Whose courage well was tried, Had made the vessel heel, And laid her on her side. A land breeze shook the shrouds, And she was overset; Down went the Royal George With all her crew complete. Toll for the brave ! Brave Kempenfelt is gone; His last sea fight is fought; His work of glory done. It was not in the battle; No tempest gave the shock ; She sprang no fatal leak; She ran upon no rock. SEA SONGS. His sword was in its sheath ; His fingers held the pen, When Kempenfelt went down, With twice four hundred men. Weigh the vessel up, Once dreaded by our foes! And mingle with our cup The tear that England owes. Her timbers yet are sound, And she may float again, Full charged with England's thunder, And plough the distant main But Kempenfelt is gone, His victories are o'er; And he and his eight hundred, Shall plough the wave no more 167 108 SEA SONGS. THE STORM. GEORGE ALEXANDER STEVENS, died 1784 (Often attributed to FALL-ONER, the Author of " The Shipwreck.") CEASE rude Boreas, blust'ring railer ! List, ye landsmen, all to me, Messmates hear a brother sailor Sing the dangers of the sea; From bounding billows, first in motion, When the distant whirlwinds rise, To the tempest-troubled ocean, Where the seas contend with skies. Hark! the boatswain hoarsely bawling, By topsail-sheets and haulyards stand ! Down top-gallants quick be hauling, Down your stay-sails, hand, boys, hand ! Now it freshens, set the braces, Quick the top-sail-sheets let go; Luff, boys, luff! don't make wry faces, Up your top-sails 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 : Round us roars the tempest louder, Think what fear our minds enthrals ; Harder yet, it yet blows harder, Now again the boatswain calls. The top-sail yard point to the wind, boys, See all clear to reef each course; Let the fore-sheet go, don't mind, boys, Tho' the weather should be worse. Fore and aft the sprit-sail-yard get, Reef the mizen, see all clear; Hands up ! each preventive 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. SEA SONGS. 169 One wide water all around us, All above us one black sky ; Different deaths at once surround Hark ! what means that dreadful cry ? The foremast's gone, cries ev'ry 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 our wives and children mourn ; 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 choked below : Heaven have mercy here upon us ! For only that can save us now. O'er the lee-beam is the land, boys, Let the guns o'erhcard be thrown; To the pumps call ev'ry hand, boys, See ! our mizen mast is gone. The leak we've found it cannot pour fast ; We've lighted her a foot or more ; Up and rig a jury fore-mast, She rights! she rights, boys! we're off shore. Another stanza to this song appears in some collections, but we omit it. as not neces- sary to the completion of the story, and as quite unworthy of the sentiineut which per- vades the rest of the piece. COME, BUSTLE, BUSTLE. From the " Convivial Songster," 1782. COME, bustle, bustle, drink about, And let us merry be; Our can is full, we'll see it out, And then all hands to sea. And a sailing we will go, will go And a sailing we will go. K 170 8EA SONGS. Fine Miss at dancing-school is taught The minuet to tread, But we go better when we've brought The fore-tack to cat-head. And a sailing, &c. The jockey's called to horse, to horse, And swiftly rides the race ; But swifter far we shape our course When we are giving chase. And a sailing, &c. When horns and shouts the forest rend, The pack the huntsmen cheer, As loud we holla when we send A broadside to Movnseer. And a sailing, &c. With gold and silver streamers fine The ladies' rigging show ; But English ships more grandly shine, When prizes home we tow. And a sailing, &c. m What's got at sea, we spend on shore With sweethearts and with wives, And then, my boys, hoist sail for more; Thus sailors pass their lives. And a sailing they do go, do go And a sailing they do go. THE BAY OF BISCAY, ! A.\ PHEW ClICRRY. LOUD roared the dreadful thunder, The rain a deluge showers, The clouds were rent asunder By lightning's vivid powers; The night both drear and dark, Our poor devoted bark, Till next day, there she lay, In the Bay of Biscay, ! SKA SONGS. 17 1 Now dashed upon the billow, Our opening timbers creak, Each fears a wat'ry pillow, None stops the dreadful leak ; To cling to slipp'ry shrouds Each breathless seaman crowds, As she lay, till the day In the Bay of Biscay, O ! At length the wished-for morrow, Broke through the hazy sky, Absorbed in silent sorrow, Each heaved a bitter sigh ; The dismal wreck to view, Struck horror to the crew, As she lay, on that day, Jn the Bay of Biscay, Her yielding timbers sever, Her pitchy seams are rent. When Heaven all bounteous ever, Its boundless mercy sent; A sail in sight appears, We hail her with three cheers, Xow we sail, with the gale, From the Bay of Biscay, O ! THE MID-WATCH. RICH AID BRINSLEV SHERIDAN, WHEN 'tis night, and the mid-watch is come, And chilling mists hang o'er the darken'd main, Then sailors think of their far distant home, And of those friends they ne'er may see again ; But when the fight's begun, Each serving at his gun, Should any thought of them come o'er your mind, Think only should the day be won, How 'twill cheer Their hearts to hear That their old companion he was one. 172 SEA SOKGS. Or, my lad, if you a mistress kind Have left on shore, some pretty girl, and true, Who many a night doth listen to the wind, And sighs to think how it may fare with you ; O, when the fight's begun, You serving at your gun, Should any thought of her come o'er your mind, Think, only should the day be won, How 'twill cheer Their hearts to bear That their old companion he was one. POOR JACK, CHARLES DIBDIN. Go, patter to lubbers and swabs, do ye see, 'Bout danger, and fear, and the like; A tight-water boat and good sea-room give me, And it a'nt to a little 111 strike. Though the tempest top-gallant masts smack smooth shoiilil smite, And shiver each splinter of wood, Clear the deck, stow the yards, and bouse everything tight, And under reef d foresail we'll scud : Avast! nor don't think me a milksop so soft To be taken for trifles aback ; For they say there's a Providence sits up aloft, To keep watch for the life of poor Jack ! I heard our good chaplain palaver one day About souls, heaven, mercy, dhd such - t And, my timbers! what lingo he'd coil and belay; Why, 'twas just all as one as High Dutch ; For he said how a sparrow can't founder, d'ye see. Without orders that come down below ; And a many fine things that proved clearly to me That Providence takes us in tow : For, says he,. do you mind me, let storms e'er so oft Take the top-sails of sailors aback, There's a sweet little cherub that sits up aloft, To keep watch for the life of poor Jack ! SEA SOKGS. Ill I said to our Poll for, d'ye see, she would cry When last we weigh'd anchor for sea, What argufies sniv'ling and piping your eye? Why, what a damn'd fool you must be ! Can't you see, the world's wide, and there's room for us all, Both for seamen and lubbers ashore? And if to old Davy I should go, friend Poll, You never will hear of me more. What then ? All's a hazard : come, don't be so soft : Perhaps I may laughing come back ; For, d'ye see, there's a cherub sits smiling aloft, To keep watch for the life of poor Jack! D'ye mind me, a sailor should be every inch All as one as A piece of the ship, And with her brave the world not offering to flinch From the moment the anchor's a trip. As for me, in all weathers, all times, sides, and ends, Nought's a trouble from a duty that springs, For my heart is my Poll's, and my rhino's my friend's, And as for my life 'tis the king's. Even when my time comes, ne'er believe me so soft As for grief to be taken aback; For the same little cherub that sits up aloft Will look out a good berth for poor Jack ! BLOW HIGH, BLOW LOW. CHARLES DIBDIN. BLOW high, blow low, let tempests tear The main-mast by the board ; My heart, with thoughts of thee, my dear, And love, well stored, Shall brave all danger, scorn all fear, The roaring winds, the raging sea, In hopes on shore, To be once more Safe moor'd with thee ! Aloft while mountains high we go, The whistling winds that scud along, And surges roaring from below, Shall my signal be, To think on thee ; And this shall be my song: Blow high, blow low, &c. 174 SEA SONGS. And on that night when all the crew The mem'ry of their former lives O'erflowing cans of flip renew, And drink their sweethearts and their wives, 111 heave a sigh, and think on thee; And as the ship rolls on the sea, Th burthen of my song shall be Blow high, blow low, &c. TOM BOWLING. CHAKLES DIBDIN. HERE, a sheer hulk, lies poor Tom Bowling, The darling of our crew ; No more he'll hear the tempest howling, For death has brought him to. His form was of the manliest beauty ; His heart was kind and soft; Faithful, below, he did his duty, But now he's gone aloft. Tom never from his word departed, His virtues were so rare ; His friends were many and true-hearted; His Poll was kind and fair : And then he'd sing so blythe and jolly; Ah, many's the time and oft! But mirth is turned to melancholy, For Tom is gone aloft. Yet shall poor Tom find pleasant weather, When he, who all commands, Shall give, to call life's crew together, The word to pipe all hands Thus Death, who kings and tars dispatches, In vain Tom's life has doffed ; For though his body's under hatches, His soul is gone aloft. SEA SONGS. 173 THE SAILOR'S CONSOLATION. CHARLES DIBDIN. ONE night came on a hurricane, The sea was mountains rolling, When Barney Buntline turn'd his quid, And said to Billy Bowling : " A strong nor-wester's blowing, Bill ; Hark ! don't ye hear it roar now ? Lord help 'em, how I pities all Unhappy folks on shore now! " Fool-hardy chaps who live in town, What danger they are all in. And now are quaking in their beds, For fear the roof should fall in : Poor creatures, how they envies us, And wishes, I've a notion, For their good luck, in such a storm, To be upon the ocean. " But as for them who're out all day, On business from their houses, And late at night are coming home, To cheer the babes and spouses ; While you and I, Bill, on the deck, Are comfortably lying, My eyes ! what tiles and chimney-pots About their heads are flying ! " And very often have we heard How men are killed and undone, By overturns of carriages, By thieves, and fires in London. We know what risks all landsmen run, From noblemen to tailors ; Then, Bill, let us thank Providence That you and I are sailors!" 176 SEA SONGS. HEAVING OF THE LEAD. CHARLES DIBDIN. Fon England when with fav'ring gale Our gallant ship up channel steer'd, And. scudding under easy sail, The high blue western land appear'd ; To heave the lead the seaman sprung, And to the pilot cheerly sung, " By the deep nine !" And bearing up to gain the port, Some well-kiiown object kept in view; An abbey- to w'r, an harbour-fort, Or beacon to the vessel true ; While oft the lead the seaman flung, And to the pilot cheerly sung, " By the mark seven !" And as the much-loved shore we near, With transport we behold the roof Where dwelt a friend or partner dear, Of faith and love a matchless proof. The lead once more the seaman flung, And to the watchful pilot sung, " Quarter less five !" Now to her berth the ship draws nigh : We shorten sail she feels the tide " Stand clear the cable," is the cry The anchor's gone ; we safely ride. The watch is set, and through the night, We hear the seamen with delight, Proclaim " All's well !" TRUE COUBAGE. CHARLES DIDUIN. WHY, what's that to you, if my eyes I'm a-wiping? A tear is a pleasure, d'ye see, in its way ; 'Tis nonsense for trifles, I own, to be piping ; But they that han't pity, why I pities they. SEA SONGS. 177 Says the Captain, says he (I shall never forget it) " If of courage you'd know, lads, the true from the sham, Tis a furious lion in hattle, so let it. But, duty appeased, 'tis in mercy a lamb." There was hustling Bob Bounce, for the old one not caring, Helter-skelter, to work, pelt away, cut and drive ; Swearing he, for his part, had no notion of sparing, And as for a foe, why he'd eat him alive. But when that he found an old prisoner he'd wounded, That once saved his life as near drowning he swam, The lion was tamed, and, with pity confounded, He cried over him just all as one as a lamb. That my friend Jack or Tom I should rescue from danger, Or lay my life down for each lad in the mess, Is nothing at all, 'tis the poor wounded stranger, And the poorer the more I shall succour distress : For however their duty bold tars may delight in, And peril defy, as a bugbear, a flam, Though the lion may feel surly pleasure in fighting, He'll feel more by compassion when turn'd to a lamb. The heart and the eyes, you see, feel the same motion, And if both shed their drops 'tis all to the same end; And thus 'tis that every tight lad of the ocean Sheds his blood for his country, his tears for his friend. If my maxim's disease, 'tis disease I shall die on, You may snigger and titter, I don't care a damn ! In me let the foe feel the paw of a lion, But, the battle once ended, the heart of a lamb. LOVELY NAN. CHARLES DIBDIN. SWEET is the ship that under sail, Spreads her white bosom to the gale; Sweet, oh! sweet's the flowing can: Sweet to poise the lab'ring oar, That tugs us to our native shore, When the boatswain pipes the barge to man K 2 178 SEA SONGS. Sweet sailing with a fav'ring breeze ; But, oh! much sweeter than all these Is Jack's delight his lovely Nan. The needle, faithful to the north, To show of constancy the worth, A curious lesson teaches man; The needle time may rust a squall Capsize the binnacle and all, Let seamanship do all it can; My love in worth shall higher rise: Nor time shall rust, nor squalls capsize My faith and truth to lovely Nan. When in the bilboes I was penn'd, For serving of a worthless friend, And every creature from me ran; No ship, performing quarantine, Was ever so deserted seen; None hail'd me woman, child, nor man : But though false friendship's sails were furl'd, Though cut adrift by all the world, I'd all the world in lovely Nan. I love my duty, love my friend, Love truth and merit to defend, To mourn their loss who hazard ran; I love to take an honest part, Love beauty and a spotless heart, But manners love to show the man; To sail through life by honour's breeze: Twas all along of loving these First made me dote on lovely Nan. EVERY BULLET HAS ITS BILLET. I'M a tough, true-hearted sailor, Careless and all that, d'ye see, Never at the times a railer What is time or tide to me? All must die when fate shall -will it, Providence ordains it so; Every bullet has its billet. Man the boat, boys Yeo, have yeo. SEA SONGS. I7'J V Life's at best a sea of trouble, He who fears it is a dunce ; Death, to me, aa empty bubble, I can never die but once. Blood, if duty bids, I'll spill it: Yet I have a tear for woe;" Every bullet has its billet, &c. Shrouded in a hammock, glory Celebrates the falling brave; Oh! how many, famed in story, Sleep below in ocean's cave. Bring the can, boys let us fill it; Shall we shun the fight? Oh, no! Every bullet has its billet, &c. Man the boat, boys Yeo, have yeo. LIFE'S LIKE A SHIP. From a small volume of Lyrical Poetry, privately printed at the expense of Mr. ,ic has long been a matter of dispute, and has excited almost as much controversy as the author- ship of the letters of Junius. Mr. Chappell, in the notes to his collection of Old English Airs, states that " about the year 1796, George Saville Carey asserted his father's claim to the authorship of this song, and made a journey to Windsor in the hope of obtaining some pecuniary recompense from the King. His claim was acquiesced in by Archdeacon Cose, in his anedotes of J. C. Smith, Handel's amanuensis ; and by Mr. S. Jones, in his ' Biographia Dramatica.' It was by no means G. S. Carey's wish, though he claimed the authorship for his father, to prove also that it was first written for King James, as that would have defeated his hopes of reward ; and probably his concealment of that fact tended more than any else to throw a suspicion upon his statement. It was immediately proved, upon concurrent testimonies, to have been sung ' God save great James, our King,' and from that time we may date the endless discussions and asser- tions on the subject. Although it is impossible to prove at this distance of time that Harry Carey was actually the author and composer of the National Anthem, yet, there being not a shadow of proof of any other claim, his having the direct and positive attestations of J. C. Smith and Dr. Harrington, coupled with the strong internal evidence in both words and music leave little doubt on the subject Add to this, that the accounts of Dr. Bumey and Dr. Cooke, of its having been sung ' God save great James,' are clearly reconcilable with its being his production ; that all attempts to prove a copy before Carey's time have failed ; moreover, it is admitted that he sang it in public (announcing it as his own production) five years before the first publication; and his not claiming it when it attained its great popularity in 1745, being explained by his having put an end to his existence three years before, at the advanced age of eighty, and leaving his son an infant." 196 PATRIOTIC AND MILITARY SONGS. THE SOLDIER'S GLEE. From " Dcuteromelia ; or, the Second Part of Musick's Melodic," &c., 1609. WE be soldiers three, Pardonnez moi je vous eu prie ; Lately come forth of the low country, With never a penny of monie. Here good fellow, I drink to thee ! Pardonnez moi je vous en prie ; To all good fellows wherever they be, With never a penny of monie. And he that will not pledge me this, Pardonnez moi je vous en prie ; Pays for the shot whatever it is, With never a penny of monie. Charge it again boy, charge it again, Pardonnez moi je vous en prie; As long as there is any ink in thy pen, With never a penny of monie. COME, IF YOU DARE. JOHN DRTDRN. From the opera of " King Arthur." COME, if you dare, our trumpets sound; Come, if you dare, the foes rebound! "We come, we come!" Says the double beat of the thund'ring drum, Now they charge on amain, Now they rally again; The gods from above the mad labour behold, And pity mankind that will perish for gold. The fainting foemen quit their ground, Their trumpets languish in the sound They fly ! they fly ! " Victoria ! Victoria !" the bold Britons cry. Now the victory's won, To the plunder we run; Then return to our lasses like fortunate traders, Triumphant with spoils of the vanquished invaders. The morality of this admired song admired for its music, not for its poetry is by no means of the best. Plunder, even of an invader, should form no part of the true soldier's aspirations. " The angels above the mad labour behold " might be suggested as au im- provement upon the paganism " The gods from above. ' PATRIOTIC AND MILITARY SONGS. 197 RULE BRITANNIA. JAMES THOMSON, author of "The Seasons," born 1700, died 1748. WHEN Britain first, at Heaven's command, Arose from out the azure main, This was the charter of the land, And guardian angels sing the strain ; Rule Britannia, Britannia rules the waves; Britons never will be slaves. The nations, not so blest as thee, Must in their turn, to tyrants fall; Whilst thou shalt flourish, great and free, The dread and envy of them all: Rule Britannia, &c. Still more majestic shalt thou rise, More dreadful from each foreign stroke; As the loud blasts that tear thy skies, Serve but to root thy native oak : Rule Britannia, &c. Thee, haughty tyrants ne'er shall tame : All their attempts to hurl thee down, Will but arouse thy gen'rous flame, And work their woe but thy renown : Rule Britannia, &c. To thee belongs the rural reign; Thy cities shall with commerce shine: All thine shall be the subject main, And every shore encircle thine: Rule Britannia, &c. The Muses, still with Freedom found, Shall to thy happy coast repair; Blest Isle ! with matchless beauty crown 'd, And manly hearts to guard the fair. Rule Britannia, &c. This celebrated song was first sung in the "Masque of Alfred/' a performance which was the joint production of James Thomson and David Mallet. The Masque was written by command of the Prince of Wales, father of George III., for his entertainment of the Court, and was first performed at Clifden in 1740, on the birthday of H.R H. the Princess of Wales. 108 PATRIOTIC AND MILITARY SONGS. THE DEATH OF THE BRAVE. WILLIAM COLLINS, born 1720, died 1766. How sleep the brave, who sink to rest By all their country's wishes blest? When Spring, with dewy fingers cold, Returns to deck their hallow'd mould ; She there shall dress a sweeter sod Than Fancy's feet have ever trod. By fairy hands their knell is rung, By forms unseen their dirge is sung; There Honour comes, a pilgrim grey, To bless the turf that wraps their clay, And Freedom shall awhile repair To dwell a weeping hermit there. THE ROAST BEEF OF OLD ENGLAND. HENRI FIELDING AND RICHARD LBVERIDOF. WHEN mighty roast beef was the Englishman's food, It ennobled our hearts, and enriched our blood; Our soldiers were brave, and our courtiers were good. Oh ! the Roast Beef of old England, And oh ! the old English Roast Beef. But since we have learned from effeminate France To eat then- ragouts, as well as to dance, We are fed up with nothing but vain complaisance, Oh! the Roast Beef, &c. Our fathers of old were robust, stout, and strong. And kept open house with good cheer all day long, Which made their plump tenants rejoice in this song, Oh the Roast Beef, &c. PATRIOTIC AND MILITARY SONGS. 199 When good Queen Elizabeth sat on the throne, Ere coffee and tea, and such slip-slops were known The world was in terror, if e'en she did frown, Oh ! the Roast Beef, &c. In those days, if fleets did presume on the main, They seldom or never return 'd hack again; As witness the vaunting Armada of Spain, Oh! the Roast Beef, &c. Oh ! then we had stomachs to eat and to fight, And when wrongs were cooking, to set ourselves right; But now we're a hum! I could, but, good night! Oh ! the Roast Beef, &c. The Roast Beef of Old England was first printed in Walsh's " British Miscellany," n.d. (about 1740). It was wriuen and composed by Richard Leveridge, but the two first verses are Fielding's. (See "Don Quixote in England," 1733). THE BRITISH GRENADIERS. Anonymous. From an engraved " Music-sheet," printed about 1780. SOME talk of Alexander, and some of Hercules. Of Hector and Lysander, and such great names as these ; But of all the world's brave heroes, there's none that can compare, With a tow, row row, row row, row row, to the British Grenadier. Those heroes of antiquity ne'er saw a cannon ball, Or knew the force of powder to slay their foes withal ; But our brave boys do know it, and banish all their fears, Sing tow, row row, row row, row row, to the British Grenadiers. Then Jove, the god of thunder, and Mars, the god of war, Brave Neptune with his trident, Apollo in his car, And all the gods celestial, descending from their sphere, Behold with admiration the British Grenadier. Whene'er we are commanded to storm the palisades; Our leaders march with fusees, and we with hand grenades, We throw them from the glacis, about the Frenchmen's ears, With a tow, row row, row row, row row, for the British Grenadiers. And when the siege is over, we to the town repair, The townsmen cry huzza, boys, here comes a grenadier, Here come the grenadiers, my boys, who know no doubts or fears, Then sing tow, row row, row row, row row, for the British Grenadiers 200 PATRIOTIC AND MILITARY SONGS. Then let us fill a bumper, and drink a health to those Who cany caps and pouches, and wear the louped clothes. May they and their commanders live happy all their years, With a tow, row row, row row, row row, for the British Grenadiers. THE SOLDIER'S DRINKING-SONG. From the " Convivial Songster." LET'S drink and sing, My brother-soldiers bold, To country and to king, Like jolly hearts of gold ! If mighty George commands us, we're ready to obey; To fight the foe, alert we go, where danger points the way. Nor wounds nor slaughter fright us, Nor thund'ring cannon-balls; Nor beds of down delight us Like scaling city walls. With sword and gun, We'll make the foe to fly: No Britons dare to run, All Britons dare to die. And when, at length returning with honour, gold, and scars We cheerful come to view the home we left for foreign wars, Again we'll meet the danger, Again renew the fight, And tell the list'ning stranger What foes are put to flight. Then drink and sing, My brother-soldiers bold, To country and to king, Like jolly hearts of gold ! While merry fifes so cheerful our sprightly marches play, While drums alarm our bosoms warm, they drive our cares away. Content we follow glory, Content we seek a name, And hope in future story To swell our country's fame. PATRIOTIC AND MILITARY SONGS. THE BRAVE MEN OF KENT TOM D'URPKT. WHEN Harold was invaded, And, falling, lost his crown, And Norman William waded Through gore to pull him down : When counties round, with fear profound, To mend their sad condition, And lands to save, base homage gave, Bold Kent made no submission. Sing, sing, in praise of men of Kent, So loyal, brave, and free: 'Mongst Britain's race if one surpass, A man of Kent is he. The hardy stout freeholders, That knew the tyrant near, In girdles and on shoulders A grove of oaks did bear : Whom when he saw in battle draw, And thought how he might need 'em, He tum'd his arms, allow'd their terms Replete with noble freedom. Then sing iu praise, &c. And when, by barons wrangling, Hot faction did increase, And vile intestine jangling Had banish'd England's peace, The men of Kent to battle went, They fear'd no wild confusion, But, join'd with York, soon did the work, And made a bless'd conclusion. Then sing in praise, &c. The gen'rous, brave, and hearty, All o'er the shire we find ; And for the low church party They're of the brightest kind. L 2 202 PATBIOTIC AND MILITARY SONGS. For king and laws they prop the cause Which high church has confounded; They love with height the moderate right, But hate the crop-ear'd Roundhead. Then sing in praise, &c. The promis'd land of blessing, For our forefathers meant, Is now in right possessing, For Canaan sure was Kent: The dome at Knoll, by fame enroll'd The church at Canterbury, The hops, the beer, the cherries, here, May fill a famous story. Sing, sing, in praise of men of Kent, So loyal, brave, and free: 'Mongst Britain's race if one surpass, A man of Kent is he. ADDITIONAL STANZAS. From the " Humming Bird." Canterbury, 1786. Augmented still in story, Our ancient fame shall rise, And Wolfe, in matchless glory, Shall soaring reach the skies ; Quebec shall own, with great renown, And France, with awful wonder, His deeds can tell how great he fell, Amidst his god-like thunder. Then sing in praise of men of Kent, All loyal, brave, and free; Of Briton's race, if one surpass, A man of Kent is he. And tho* despotic power With iron reins may check, Our British sons of freedom Their parent cause will back : PATRIOTIC AND MILITARY SONGS. With voice and pen they forthwith stand, Brave Sawhridge soon will tell them, That virtue's cause and British laws, Bold men of Kent won't fail them. Then sing in praise of men of Kent, All loyal, hrave, and free; Of Briton's race, if one surpass, A man of Kent is he. k When royal George commanded Militia to be rais'd, The French would sure have landed, But for such youths as these ; Their oxen stall, and cricket ball, They left for martial glory, The Kentish lads shall win the odds Your fathers did before you. Then sing in praise of men of Kent. All loyal, brave, and free ; Of Briton's race, if one surpass, A man of Kent is he. A SOLDIER, A SOLDIER FOR ME. From the " Humming Bird." Canterbury, 1786. A SOLDIER, a soldier, a soldier for me, His arms are so bright, And he looks so upright, So gallant and gay, When he trips it away, Who is so nice and well powder'd as he. Sing rub a dub rub ; a dub rub a dub ; a dub a dub dub dub ;- Thunder and plunder ! A soldier, a soldier, a soldier for me. Each morn when we see him upon the parade, He cuts such a flash, With his gorget and sash, And makes such ado, With his gaiter and queue, Sleeping or waking, who need be afraid. Sing, rub a dub, &c. PATRIOTIC AND MILITARY SONGS. Or else when he's mounted so trim and so tall, With broad sword in hand, The whole town to command, Such capers, such prances, Such ogling, such glances, Our hearts gallop off, and are left at Whitehall, Sing taran tantaran ; tantaran tantaran tan Trumpet and thump it, A soldier, a soldier, a soldier for me ! A soldier, &c. HE COMES, HE COMES, THE HERO COMES. From the " Humming Bird." Canterbury, 1780. HE comes, he comes, the Hero comes, Sound the trumpet, beat the drums, From port to port, let cannons roar, He's welcome to the British shore. Prepare, prepare, your songs prepare; Loudly rend the echoing air: From pole to pole your joys resound, For virtue's his, with glory crown 'd. A KNAPSACK AND A CHEERFUL HEART. \ CHARLES DIBDIN. WE Soldiers drink, we Soldiers sing, We fight our foes, and love our King, While all our wealth two words impart, A knapsack and a cheerful heart. While the merry, merry fife and drum, Bid intruding care be dumb, Sprightly still we sing and play, And make dull life a holiday. Though we march, or though we halt, Or though the enemy we assault, Though we're cold, or though we're warm, Or though the sleeping city storm, Still the merry, merry fife and drum, &c. PATRIOTIC AND MILITARY SONGS. Are lasses kind, or are they shy, Or do they pout they know not why ? While full the knapsack, light the heart, Content we meet, content we part. For the merry, merry fife and drum, &c. We sigh not for the toils of state ; We ask not of the rich nor great ; For, be we rich, or be we poor, Are purses full, or duns at door; Still the meny, merry fife and drum, &c. Thus we drink, and thus we sing ; We beat our foes, and love our King, While all our wealth two words impart, A knapsack and a cheerful heart; For the merry, merry fife and drum, &c. THE SOLDIER, W. SMYTH. From AIKIS'S " Vocal Poetry," 1810. WHAT dreaming drone was ever blest, By thinking of the morrow? To-day be mine I leave the rest To all the fools of sorrow; Give me the mind that mocks at care, The heart, its own defender; The spirits that are light as air, And never beat surrender. On comes the foe to arms to arms We meet 'tis to death or glory; "Tis victory in all her charms, Or fame in Britain's story; Dear native land! thy fortunes frown, And ruffians would enslave thee; Thou land of honour and renown, Who could not die to save thee? 'Tis you, 'tis I, that meets the ball; And me it better pleases, In battle with the brave to fall. Than die of cold diseases ; 206 PATRIOTIC AND MILITARY SONGS. Than drivel on in elbow-chair With saws and tales unheeded, A tottering thing of aches and care, Nor longer loved nor needed. But thou dark is thy flowing hair, Thine eye with fire is streaming; And o'er thy cheek, thy looks, thine air, Health sits in triumph beaming; Then, brother soldier, fill the wine, Fill high the wine to beauty ; Love, friendship, honour, all are thine, Thy country and thy duty. THE SNUG LITTLE ISLAND. THOMAS DIBDIN. DADDY NEPTUNE, one day, to Freedom did say, If ever I lived upon dry land, The spot I should hit on would be Little Britain! Says Freedom, "Why, that's my own Island!" 0, it's a snug little Island! A right little, tight little Island ! Search the globe round, none can be found So happy as this little Island. Julius Caesar, the Koman, who yielded to no man, Came by water he couldn't come by land; And Dane, Pict, and Saxon, their homes turn'd their backs on, And all for the sake of our Island. 0, what a snug little Island; They'd all have a touch at the Island ! Some were shot dead, some of them fled, And some stayed to live on the Island. Then a very great war-man, called Billy the Norman, Cried, d n it, I never liked my laud. It would be much more handy, to leave this Normandy, And live on your beautiful Island. PATRIOTIC AND MILITARY SONGS. Says he, " 'tis a snug little Island ; Shan't us go visit the Island?" Hop, skip, and jump, there he was plump, And he kick'd up a dust in the Island. But party deceit help'd the Normans to beat; Of traitors they managed to buy land; By Dane, Saxon, or Pict, Britons ne'er had been lick'd, Had they stuck to the King of their Island. Poor Harold, the king of our Island! He lost both his life and his Island. That's all very true: what more could he do? Like a Briton he died for his Island ! The Spanish armada set out to invade a, 'Twill sure, if they ever come nigh land. They couldn't do less than tuck up Queen Bess, And take their full swing on the Island. O the poor Queen of the Island ! The Dons came to plunder the Island ; But snug in her hive, the queen was alive, And " buzz " was the word of the Island. These proud puff'd-up cakes thought to make ducks and drakes Of our wealth; but they hardly could spy land, When our Drake had the luck to make their pride duck And stoop to the lads of the Island! Huzza, for the tight little Island ! The good wooden walls of the Island ; Devil or Don, let them come on; And see ^how they'd come off the Island ! Since Freedom and Neptune have hitherto kept time, In each saying, "This shall be my land;" Should the " Army of England," or all it could bring, land We'd show 'em some play for the Island. We'd fight for our right to the Island; We'd give them enough of the Island; Invaders should just bite once at the dust, But not a bit more of the Island. PATRIOTIC AND MILITARY SONGS. UPON THE PLAINS OF FLANDERS, UPON the plains of Flanders, Our fathers long ago, They fought like Alexanders Beneath old Marlborough; And still in fields of conquest, Our valour bright has shone, With Wolfe and Abercrombie, And Moore and Wellington. Our plumes have waved in combats, That ne'er shall be forgot, Where many a mighty squadron Reeled backwards from our shot. In charges with the bayonet, We lead our bold compeers; But Frenchmen like to stay not For British grenadiers. Once bravely at Vimiera They hoped to play their parts, And sing fal lira, lira, To cheer their drooping hearts. But English, Scotch, and Paddy-whacks, We gave three hearty cheers, And the French soon turned their backs To the British grenadiers. At St. Sebastiano, And Badajos's town, Though raging like volcanoes The shell and shot came down, With courage never wincing, We scaled the ramparts high, And waved the British ensign In glorious victory. And what could Bonaparte With all his curassiers, In battle do, at Waterloo, With British grenadiers? Then ever sweet the drum shall beat That march unto our ears, Whose maitial roll awakes the soul Of British grenadiers. SPORTING SONGS. S a people, the English are pre-eminently fond of sporting, and have been so from the earliest times ; but this passion has left few enduring traces upon our poeti- cal literature. Somerville's " Chase" is the only sporting poem the language can boast, and it is a poem deserving of more than the niggardly praise which Dr. Johnson has bestowed upon it in his "Lives of the Poets." But beyond this, there is little or nothing to show in our poetry of which literature can justly be proud, unless it be an occasional descrip- tion in the rhymed romances of Sir Walter Scott. The rude sports of the 210 SPORTING SONGS. field have for the most part been celebrated by rude writers, and the homeliest diction seems to have been considered the most appropriate, or at all events the most likely to please the rough or ready gentlemen who leap five-bar gates, and live their lives among hounds and horses. Even Dibdin, so admirable in his sea songs, becomes coarse when he sings of the sports of the field. And yet the sporting songs of England are highly popular. The roaring choruses of "Hark forward!" or "Tantivy," or " Tantarara," or, worse than all, "Yoicks! Tally-ho!" are doubtless exciting enough at sportsmen's festivals after the sports of the day are concluded; although they do not look well in print, and have no attractions for the mere reader. It requires a congenial and uncritical audience, a good singer, a loud chorus of willing voices, and the contagious enthusiasm of a large company, to render such roystering ballads at all agieeable, or even tolerable, and paper and print invariably rob them of their attractions. The quiet reader cannot see the beauty of the sport, and is tempted to echo the opinion of Charles Dibdin: "When all ready mounted they number their forces, Enough the wild boar or the tiger to scare, Pity fifty stout beings count men, dogs, and horses, Should encounter such perils to kill one poor hare!" It must be admitted, however, that Sir Walter Scott has thrown a charm and a grace into hunting songs, which were utterly unknown before he wrote. Yet, at the same time, his songs are considered by sportsmen to be unsuited to the subject, and to belong more properly to the drawing-room than to the field. The true sportsman, according to Somerville, the laureate of the chase, loves the " concert of the dog- kennel " better than any other. The songs in praise of angling, cricketing, and skating are, as literary compositions, of a much more refined class than any other sporting lyrics. Mr. Armiger, of Melton Mowbray, who published in 1830 a collection of songs and ballads relating to Racing, Hunting, Coursing, Shooting, Hawking, Angling, and Archery, has selected no less than three hundred lyrics of these various kinds ; which SPORTING SONGS. 211 number, great as it is, is far from having exhausted the subject ; for, with a view of presenting an original compilation, he purposely excluded from it every song to be found in a similar volume, published in 1810, under the title of "Songs of the Chase," containing upwards of 340 songs upon the same topics. The object of his volume was to show the groundlessness of "the complaint frequently made at the festive board of a dearth of sporting songs," an object in which he most undoubtedly suc- ceeded, although his collection might be cited to prove what neither he nor the previous editor intended to show a dearth of genius in writers of this class. The selection here made includes some of the most ancient sporting songs in the language valuable on that account if on no other and also some of the most popular of later compositions. M 2 212 SPORTING SONGS. THE THREE ARCHERS. WE three Archers be, Rangers that rove throughout the north country, Lovers of ven'son and liberty, That value not honours or money. We three good fellows be, That never yet ran from three times three. Quarterstaff, broadsword, or bowmanry, But give us fair play for our money. We three merry men be, At a lass or a glass under greenwood tree ; Jocundly chauntiug our ancient glee, Though we had not a penny of money. This song, ot wnicn the editor has not been able to trace the first appearance, is mtxlelled upon the style of, or is a parody upon, " The Soldier's Glee, from the " Deuto- rcitnalia." See " Military and Patriotic Songs." SPORTING SONGS. EOBIN, LEND TO ME THY BOW. From a curious musical miscellany, called " Pamelia," 4to. Loncl. 1609. The song, however, is much older than the date of the book, being frequently mentioned by Elizabethan writers. Now, Robin, lend to me thy bow, Sweet Robin, lend to me thy bow ; For I must now a hunting with my lady go, With my sweet lady go And whither will thy lady go ? Sweet Wilkin tell it unto me ; And thou shalt have my hawk, my hound, and eke my bow, To wait on thy ladye. My lady will to Uppingham, 1 To Uppingham, forsooth, will she ; And I myself appointed for to be the man, To wait on my ladye. i A market town in Rutlandshire. 214 SPORTING SONGS. Adieu, good Wilkin, all beshrewd, Thy hunting nothing pleaseth me ; But yet beware thy babbling hounds stray not abroad, For ang'ring of thy ladye. My hounds shall be led in the line, So well I can assure it thee ; Unless by view of strain some pursue I may find, To please my sweet ladye. With that the lady she came in, And will'd them all for to agree ; For honest hunting never was accounted sin, Nor never shall for me THE ANGLER. JOHN CHALKHII.L OH ! the gallant fisher's life, It is the best of any : 'Tis full of pleasure, void of strife, And 'tis beloved by many : Other joys Are but toys ; Only this Lawful is ! For our skill Breeds no ill But content and pleasure. In a morning, up we rise, Ere Aurora's peeping , Drink a cup to wash our eyes, Leave the sluggard sleeping ; Then we go, To and fro, With our knacks At our backs, To such streams As the Thames, If we have the leisure. SPORTING SOXGS. When we please to walk abroad For our recreation ; In the ftelds is our abode, Full of delectation; Where, in a brook, With a hook Or a lake, Fish we take ; There we sit, For a bit, Till we fish entangle as We have gentles in a horn, We have paste and worms too ; We can watch both night and morn, Suffer rain and storms too ; None do here Use to swear; Oaths do fray Fish away ; We sit still, Watch our quill : Fishers must not wrangle. 216 SPOUTING SONGS. Jf the sun's excessive heat Make our bodies swelter, To an osier hedge we get, For a friendly shelter ; Where in a dyke, Perch or pike, Roach or daice, We do chase, Bleak or gudgeon, Without grudging; We are still contented. Or, we sometimes pass an hour Under a green willow, That defends us from a shower, Making earth our pillow ; Where we may Think and pray, Before death Stops our hreath : Other joys Are but toys, And to be lamented. WHEN A SHOOTING WE DO GO. Anonymous. Date uncertain. Eighteenth century. THE season's in for Partridges, Let's take our guns and dogs ; It shaVt be said that we're afraid, Of quagmires, or of bogs, When a shooting we do go, do go, do go ; When a shooting we do go. Now " Flora" she doth beat the scent, And after follows " Phillis;" Thro' hedge and brake the way let's take, For all our aim to kill is. When a shooting, &c. And should success attend us, What pleasure it will prove ! Let's charge, and prime, and lose no time, While through the fields we rove. When a shooting, &c. SPORTIXG SON'GS. It is not for ourselves we shoot, Tis to oblige our neighbours ; And, when they eat, they may debate On the produce of our labours. When a shooting, &c. Of shooting, then, let us partake ; What pastime is so pleasant? The Partridge gone, we'll charge each gun, And so proceed to Pheasant When a shooting, &c. 1H7 And when those seasons they are o'er, Perchance, if we've good luck ; We'll take the chase, and never cease 'Till we have shot a Buok. When a shooting, &c. How sumptuously we then shall feast On ven'son, steep'd in wine ! On dainties rare, how we shall fare ! Like Alexanders dine ! When a shooting, &c. 218 SPOUTING SONGS. In friendship, and in harmony, Let's join in social bands ; And try who most his friend can toast, And so unite our hands ! And a shooting, &c. The chorus or burden of this and the following song appears to have been a grrat favourite with the popular writers of the last century. It has been reproduced in an almost countless number of songs, upon every variety of subject. The liberality of the sportsman of former days, mentic ned in the fourth stanza, might well be imitated by their degenerate and mercenary successors. Many sportsmen, at present, seem to prefer catering for Leadenball market and the poulterers, obliging their friends and neigh- bours, as true sportsmen loved to do formerly. A HUNTING WE WILL GO. HKNUY FIBLDINO, born 1707, died 1754. THE dusky night rides down the sky, And ushers in the morn : The hounds all join in glorious cry, The huntsman winds his horn. And a hunting we will go. The wife around her husband throws Her arms to make him stay ; " My deai-, it rains, it hails, it blows ; You cannot hunt to-day." Yet a hunting we will go. Away they fly to 'scape the rout, Their steeds they soundly switch ; Some are thrown in, and some thrown out, And some thrown in the ditch. Yet a hunting we will go. Sly Reynard now like lightning flies, And sweeps across the vale ; And when the hounds too near he spies, He drops his bushy tail. Then a hunting we will go. Fond Echo seems to like the sport, And join the jovial cry ; The woods, the hills, the sound retort, And music fills the sky. When a hunting we do go. SPORTING SONGS. 219 At last his strength to faintness worn, Poor Keynard ceases flight ; Then hungry, homeward we return, To feast away the night. And a drinking we do go. Ye jovial hunters, in the morn Prepare then for the chase ; Rise at the sounding of the horn And health with sport embrace. When a hunting we do go. There are several versions of this song, of various degrees of length and of merit. " This song," says Mr. Chappell, in his collection of national English airs, " was originally to the tune of ' A Begging we will go,' (1660.) The words by Fielding are contained in his ballad opera of Don Quixote in England, but have been since somewhat altered." SPORTING SONGS. OLD TOWLER. Anonymous. Eighteenth century.' BRIGHT Chanticleer proclaims the dawn, And spangles deck the thorn, The lowing herds now quit the lawn, The lark springs from the corn : Dogs, huntsmen, round the window throng, Fleet Towler leads the cry, Arise the burden of my song, This day a stag must die. With a hey, ho, chevy ! Hark forward, hark forward, tantivy ! Hark ! hark ! tantivy ! This day a stag must die. The cordial takes its merry round, The laugh and joke prevail, The huntsman blows a jovial sound, The dogs snuff up the gale ; The upland wilds they sweep along, O'er fields, through brakes they fly, The game is roused, too true the song, This day a stag must die. With a hey, ho, &c. Poor stag ! the dogs thy haunches gore, The tears run down thy face, The huntsman's pleasure is no more, His joys were in the chase ; Alike the gen'rous sportsman burns, To win the blooming fair, But yet he honours each by turns, They each become his care With a hey, ho, &c THE HIGH-METTLED RACER. CHARLES DIBUIN. SEE, the course throng'd with gazers, the sports are begun, What confusion, but hear ! " I'll bet you, Sir !" " Done, done !' A thousand strange murmurs resound far and near, Lords, hawkers, and jockeys, assail the tired ear; SPORTING SONGS. While, with neck like a rainbow, erecting his crest, Pamper'd, prancing, and pleased, his head touching his breast; Scarcely snuffing the air, he's so proud and elate, The high-mettled racer first starts for the plate. Next Reynard's turn'd out, and o'er hedge and ditch rush Hounds, horses, and huntsmen, all hard at his brush They run him at length, and they have him at bay, And by scent or by view, cheat a long tedious day ; AYhile alike born for sports in the field or the course, Always sure to come thorough a staunch and fleet horse ; And when fairly run down, the fox yields up his breath, The high mettled racer is in at the death. Grown aged, used up, and turn'd out of the stud, Lame, spavin'd, and wind-gall'd, but yet with some blood ; While knowing postilions his pedigree trace, Tell his dam won that sweepstakes, his sire won that race : And what matches he'd won to the ostlers count o'er, As they loiter their time by some hedge-alehouse door ; Whilst the harness sore galls, and the spurs his sides goad, The high-mettled racer's a hack on the road. At length, old and feeble, trudging early and late, Bow'd down by diseases, he bends to his fate ; Blind, old, lean, and feeble, he tugs round a mill, Or draws sand, till the sand of his hour-glass stands still; 222 SPORTING SONGS. And now, cold and lifeless, exposed to our view In the very same cart which he yesterday drew ; Whilst a pitying crowd his sad relics surrounds The high-mettled racer is sold to the hounds. TOM MOODY. Anonymous. You all knew Tom Moody, the whipper-in, well ; The bell just done tolling was honest Tom's knell, A more able sportsman ne'er followed a hound Through a country well known to him fifty miles round. No hound ever open'd, with Tom near the wood, But he'd challenge the tone, and could tell if 'twere good ; And all with attention would eagerly mark, When he cheered up the pack, " Hark! to Rockwood, hark! hark High ! wind him ! and cross him ! Now, Ratler, boy ! Hark ! Six crafty earth-stoppers, in hunter's green drest, Supported poor Tom to " an earth" made for rest : His horse, which he styled his " Old Soul," next appear'd, On whose forehead the brush of his last fox was rear'd ; Whip, cap, boots, and spurs, in a trophy were bound, And here and there follow'd an old straggling hound. Ah ! no more at his voice yonder vales will they trace ! Nor the Welkin resound his burst in the chase ! With " High over ! Now press him ! Tally ho '.Tally ho !" Thus Tom spoke his friends, ere he gave up his breath : " Since I see you're resolved to be in at the death, One favour bestow 'tis the last I shall crave, Give a rattling view-halloo thrice over my grave ; And unless at that warning I lift up my head, My boys, you may fairly conclude I am dead !" Honest Tom was obey'd, and the shout rent the sky, For ev'ry voice join'd in the tally ho cry, Tally ho ! Hark forward ! Tally ho ! Tally ho !" SPORTING SOXGS. THE BOY IN YELLOW. From Songs of the Chase. 1810. WHEN first I strove to win the prize, I felt my youthful spirits rise ; Hope's crimson flush illumed my face, And all my soul was in the race. When weigh'd and mounted, 'twas my pride, Before the starting-post to ride ; My rival's drest in red and green, But I in simple yellow seen. In stands around fair ladies swarm, And mai'k with smiles my slender form ; Their lovely looks new ardour raise, For beauty's smile is merit's praise ! The flag is dropt the sign to start- Away more fleet than winds we dart, And tho' the odds against me lay, The boy in yellow wins the day ! 224 SPORTIKG SONGS. Tho' now no more we seek the race, I trust the jockey keeps his place ; For still to win the prize, I feel An equal wish, an equal zeal : And still can beauty's smile impart Delightful tremors through this heart : Indeed, I feel it flutter now Yes, while I look, and while I bow ! My tender years must vouch my truth For candour ever dwells with youth ; Then sure the sage might well believe, A face like mine could ne'er deceive, If here you e'er a match should make, My life upon my luck I'll stake ; And 'gainst all odds, I think you'll say, The boy in yellow wins the day. THE CRICKETER. Anonymous. Eighteenth century. To live a life, free from gout, pain, or phthisic, Athletic employment is found the best physic ; The nerves are bv exercise hardened and strengthened, And vigour attends it, by which life is lengthened. Derry down, &c. What conduces to health deserves recommendation, 'Twill entail a strong race on the next generation ; And of all the field-games ever practised or known, That cricket stands foremost each Briton must own. Derry down, &c Let dull pensive souls boast the pleasure of angling, And o'er ponds and brooks be eternally dangling ; Such drowsy worm-killers are fraught with delight, If but once in a week they obtain a fair bite. Derry down, &c. The cricketer noble in mind as in merit, A taste for oppression can never inherit, A stranger to swindling, he never would wish To seduce by false baits, and betray a poor fish. Derry down, SPORTING SONGS. 225 No stings of remorse hurt the cricketer's mind, To innocent animals never unkind, The guiltless his doctrine is ever to spare, Averse to the hunting or killing the hare. Derry down, &c. To every great duke, and to each nohle lord, Let each fill his glass with most hearty accord ; And to all brother knights, whether absent or present, Drink health and success, from the peer to the peasant^ Derry down, &c. FAR AWAY. From " Songs of the Chase," 1810. THE portals of the east divide ; The orient dawn is just descried, Mild and grey : The starry fires elude the sight ; The shadows fly before the light, Far away. Now hark ! the woodland haunt is found ! For now the merry bugles sound Their sylvan lay : As each sweet measure floats along, Sweet Echo wakes her mimic song, Far away. The stag now rous'd, right onward speeds, O'er hill and dale, o'er moor and meads, He's fain to stray : His flight the shouting peasants view ; His steps the dasbing hounds pursue, Far away. All day untir'd, his route we trace, Exulting in the joyous chase, Of such a day ! At length, at mild eve's twilight gleam, He's taken in the valley stream, Far away. 226 SPORTING SONGS. NOW NIGHT HER DUSKY MANTLE. Now night her dusky mantle folds, The larks are soaring high ; And morn her golden shafts has shot, To gild the eastern sky ; We sportsmen scour the distant plains, The hounds pursue their prey ; While echoes round the valleys sound, Hark forward, hark away ! O'er mountain top, and river deep, The fox for shelter flies, And cowering into coverts strong, His cunning vainly tries ; His death proclaims the sportsman's joy, The dogs they seize their prey ; While echoes round the valleys sound, Hark forward, hark away ! SAY WHAT IS WEALTH. SAY, what is wealth without delight? 'Tis dross, 'tis dirt, 'tis useless quite ; Better be poor, and taste of joy, Than thus your wasted time employ. Then let a humble son of song, .Repeat those pleasures most divine ; The joys that life's best hours prolong, Are those of hunting, love, and wine. For hunting gives us jocund health, We envy not the miser's wealth, But chase the Fox or timid Hare, And know delight he cannot share. Then home at eve we cheerly go, Whilst round us brightest comforts shine ; With joy shut in, we shut out woe, And sing of hunting, love, and wine. Mild love attunes the soul to peace, And bids the toiling sportsman cease ; This softer passion's pleasing pow'r, With bliss ecstatic wing the hour. SPORTING SONGS. It soothes the mind to sweetest rest, Or savage thoughts might there entwine ; Thus he alone is truly blest, Whose joys are hunting, love, and wine. 'Tis wine exhilarates the heart, When sinking under sorrow's smart ; 'Tis that can ease the wretch's woe, And heighten ev'ry bliss we know. But wine's abuse makes man a beast, Be all with moderation mine ; Life will appear one endless feast, While blest with hunting, love, and wine. 227 RINGWOOD. From " Songs of the Chase," 1810. YE darksome woods where Echo dwells, Where every bud with freedom swells, To meet the glorious day : The morning breaks; again rejoice; And with old Ringwood's well-known voice, Bid tuneful Echo play 228 SPORTING SONGS. We come, ye groves, ye hills, we come, The vagrant Fox shall hear his doom, And dread our jovial trin. The shrill horn sounds, the courser flies, While every sportsman joyful cries, There's Ringwood's voice again. Ye meadows, hail the coming throng j Ye peaceful streams that wind along, Repeat the Hark-away : Far o'er the Downs, ye gales that sweep, The daring oak that crowns the steep, The roaring peal convey. The chiming notes of cheerful hounds, Hark ! how the hollow dale resounds j The sunny hills how gay. But where's the note, brave dog, like thine ? Then urge the steed, the chorus join, Tis Ringwood leads the way. THE SKATERS' SONG. From AKMIOKR'S "Sportsman's Vocal Cabinet" THIS hleak and frosty morning, All thoughts of danger scorning, Our spirits hrightly flow ; We're all in a glow, Through the sparkling snow, While a-skating we go, With a fa, la, la, la, la, la, la, To the sound of the merry horn. From right to left we're plying, Swifter than winds we're flying ; Spheres on spheres surrounding, Health and strength abounding. In circles we sleep ; Our poise still we keep, Behold how we sweep The face of the deep. With a fa, la, la, la, la, la, la, To the sound of the merry horn. SPORTING SONGS. 229 Great Jove looks on us smiling, Who thus the time beguiling : Though the waters he sail, Still we row on our keel, Our weapons are steel, And no danger we feel, With a fa, la, la, la, la, la, la, To the sound of the merry horn. See, see our train advances, See how each skater lances ; Health and strength abounding, While horns and oboes sounding ; The Tritons shall blow Their cone-shells below, And their beards fear to show, While a-skating we go, With a fa, la, la, la, la, la, la, To the sound of the merry horn. HARK! THE HOLLOW WOODS KESOUNDING. From ARMIGEK'S " Sportsman's Vocal Cabinet" HARK ! the hollow woods resounding, Echo to the hunter's cry ; Hark ! how all the vales surrounding To his cheering voice reply. Now so swift o'er hills aspiring, He pursues the gay delight, Distant woods and vales retiring Seem to vanish from his sight. Flying still, and still pursuing, See the fox, the hounds, the men ; Cunning cannot save from ruin, Far from refuge, wood, and den. Now they kill him, homeward hie him, To a jovial night's repast; Thus no sorrow e'er comes nigh them, Health continues to the last. 230 SPORTING SONGS. Hark ! the hollow woods resounding. Echo to the hunter's cry; Hark ! how all the vales surrounding To his cheering voice reply. There are several versions of this song. THE TUNEFUL SOUND OF KOBIN'S HORN. Anonymous. Eighteenth century. THE tuneful sound of Robin's horn Hath welcom'd thrice the blushing morn ; Then haste, Clorinda, haste away, And let us meet the rising day. And through the green wood let us go, With arrows keen, and bended bow ; There breathe the mountain's fresh'ning gale, Or scent the blossoms in the vale. For nature now is in her prime, 'Tis now the lusty summer time ; When grass is green, and leaves are long, And feather'd warblers tune their song. At noon, in some sequester'd glade, Beneath's some oak-tree's ample shade We'll feast, nor envy all the fare Which courtly dames and barons share. See, see in yonder glen appear In wanton herds the fallow-deer ; Then haste, my love, oh ! haste away, And let us meet the rising day. THE FOX-HUNTER'S HALL. YE fox-hunters, stag, aye, and hare-hunters too, Whose aim is to rub off the furrows of care, Like Nimrods the fleet-footed brusher pursue, And taste of the sweets of the morn-breathing air ! Come hither, come hither, at jollity's call, And join in the revels at Fox-Hunter's Hall ! SPORTING SONGS. 231 To friendship, true friendship, the toast shall go round, To love, and the pleasure derived from the chase ; For while love and friendship in union are found, What bliss can of hunting, fox-hunting take place ? Then hither, come hither, at jollity's call, And join in the revels at Fox-Hunter's Hall ! The hreeze of the mom, like the lip-kiss of love, Invites us to hail it as something divine ! While the sound of the horn, like a harp from above, Awakens a joy for which thousands repine. Then hither, come hither, at jollity's call, And join in the revels at Fox-Hunter's Hall ! What's life without love ? and what's gold without health? A phantom, a fly-trap, or dream at the best ; While health, love, and friendship, are treasures of wealth, And those that possess them with paradise blest : Then hither, come hither, at jollity's call, And join in the revels at Fox-Hunter's Hall ! THE HEALTH OF SPORTING. Anonymous. Eighteenth century. KEEP silence, good folks, and I pray you attend, For I'm no common singer you'll find in the end. Tally-ho! Tally-ho! I'm a hunting physician, and cure ev'ry ill, Disorders and pains, without bolus or pill. Tally-ho, &c. Let the man who's disturbed by misfortune and care, Away to the woodlands and vallies repair. Tally-ho, &c. Let him hear but the notes of the sweet swelling horn, With the hounds in full cry, and his troubles are gone. Tally-ho, &c. Let the lovers who secretly simper and sigh, And droop at the sight of a blue or black eye. Tally-ho,"&c 232 SPORTING SONGS. Brush up to 'em boldly and try 'era again, For women love sportsmen, as sportsmen love them. Tally-ho, &c. Should you chance to be blessed with a termagant wife, Who instead of the joy, is the plague of your life. Tally-ho, &c. When madam her small-shot begins to let go, Why draw on your boots, and away, tally-ho ! Tally-ho, &c. Ye poor forlorn devils, oppressed with the hip, Who thus the sweet moments of pleasure let slip. Tally-ho, &c. As soon as the whimsy your fancy surrounds, You have nothing to do but get after the hounds. Tally-ho, &c. Come here, ye old codgers, whose nerves are unstrung, Come follow the hounds, and you'll hunt yourselves young. Tally-ho, & c . 'Twill cure the short cough, and the rheumatic pain, Do but cry tally-ho, and you're all young again. Tally-ho, &c. If death, that old poacher, to smuggle you strives, Get astride on your saddle, and hunt for your lives. Tally-ho, &c. Never heed his grim looks if your gelding can go, You cannot be caught while you cry tally-ho. Tally-ho, &c. WAKEN, LORDS AND LADIES GAY. SIR WALTER SCOTT. WAKEN, lords and ladies gay, On the mountain dawns the day, All the jolly chase is here, With horse, and hawk, and hunting spear ! Hounds are in their couples yelling, Hawks are whistling, horns are knelling. Merrily, merrily, mingle they, " Waken, lords and ladies gay." SPORTING SONGS. Waken, lords and ladies gay, The mist has left the mountain gray, Springless in the dawn are steaming. Diamonds on the brake are gleamiug, And foresters have busy been, To track the buck in thicket green ; Now we come to chant our lay, " Waken, lords and ladies gay." 233 Waken, lords and ladies gay, To the green-wood haste away ; We can show you where he lies, Fleet of foot, and tall of size ; We can show the marks he made, When 'gainst the oak his antlers fray'd ; You shall see him brought to bay, " Waken, lords and ladies gay." 234 SPORTING SONGS. Louder, louder chant the lay, Waken, lords and ladies gay ; Tell them youth, and mirth, and glee, Bun a course as well as we ; Time, stern huntsman, who can baulk ? Staunch as hound, and fleet as hawk ; Think of this, and rise with day, Gentle lords and ladies gay. HUNTSMAN, REST! SIR WALTRK SCOTT. HUNTSMAN, rest ! thy chase is done, While our slumb'rous spells assail ye, Dream not with the rising sun, Bugles here shall sound reveille. Huntsman, rest ! Sleep! the deer is in his den, Sleep ! thy hounds are by thee lying, Sleep ! nor dream in yonder glen How thy gallant steed lay dying. Huntsman, rest ! Huntsman, rest ! thy chase is done, Think not of the rising sun, For at morning to assail ye, Here no bugles sound reveille. _ Huntsman, rest ! THE HUNTSMAN'S DIRGE. THE smiling morn may light the sky, And joy may dance in beauty's eye, Aurora's beams to see ; The mellow horn's inspiring sound, May call the blithe companions round, But who shall waken thee? Ronald ? Thou ne'er wilt hear the mellow horn, Thou ne'er wilt quaff the breath of morn, Nor join thy friends with glee ; No glorious sun shall gild thy day, And beauty's fascinating ray, No more shall shine on thee, Ronald ! MAD SONGS. T is worth attention," says Dr. Percy, in his "Relics of English Poetry," "that the English have more songs and bal- lads on the subject of madness than any of their neighbours. Whether there be any truth in the insinuation that we are more liable to this calamity than other nations, or that our native gloomi- ness hath peculiarly recommended sub- jects of this class to our writers, we certainly do not find the same in the printed collections of French and Italian songs." Percy presents his readers with six mad songs, as specimens of the English taste for this peculiar class of 236 MAD SONGS. compositions. Of those which follow in the present collection only two are included in his "Relics of English Poetry." It is certainly remarkable how much the genius of English writers loves to dally with, to philosophize upon, and to adorn the subject of madness. Of all Shakspeare's plays, Hamlet is un- doubtedly the most popular, and it is difficult to decide whether the half craze of Hamlet himself, or the utter prostration of the mind of the luckless Ophelia, is the more painfully and irresistibly attractive, or which of the two excites the most sympathy. The snatches of song sung by the mad Ophelia invariably melt an English audience to tears ; and the terrible madness of Lear, whenever it is represented on the stage touches a chord in every heart. Sir Walter Scott, in his matchless fictions, has also made powerful use of madness, and of that state of mind not actual lunacy, but not far removed from it when reason trembles on the balance, and the spectator or the reader watches with excited and painful curiosity the moment when the tottering intellect shall be finally overthrown, and the madness which was more than sus pected shall be completely revealed. Many of our song-writers have from an early period availed themselves of the popular interest in subjects of this kind ; and musical composers have done their best to aid the efforts of song-writers in rendering them attractive. The literature of other countries, as Percy has remarked, offers no such examples, and we seek in vain among the songs of the northern or the southern nations of Europe for similar specimens. Even the genius of the Germans, so akin to our own, fails to cope with us in the delineation of the picturesque horrors and touching sorrows of the mad. If any allusion be made to the subject in the writings of the continental critics, it is but to give additional currency to the old joke about Englishmen, which Shakspeare has put into the mouth of the clown in Hamlet : Hamlet : Ay, marry! why was he sent into England ? Clown : Why because he was mad : he shall recover his wits there ; or if he do not, 'tis no great matter there. Hamlet: Why? Clown : 'Twill not be seen in him there ; there the men are all as mad as he. II AD SONGS. 237 Many modern French poets and critics think that our English madness regularly returns with the month of November, and that suicides in that month are as plentiful as strawberries in June, or blackberries in September. It is our " sky " that does it, if we are to believe the French theory, and Waterloo-bridge was built on purpose to accommodate ladies and gentlemen afflicted with the national malady, and to render suicide both facile and agreeable. " Oh, Bedlam !" exclaims Auguste Barbier, in his " Lazare:" " Oh Bedlam ! monument de crainte et de douleur D'autres p6netreront plus avant dans ta masse Quant a moi, je ne puis que detourner la face, Et dire que ton temple aux antres Stouffans Est digne pour ses dieux d' avoir de tels enfans, Et que le ciel brumeux de la sombre Angleterre Peut servir largement de dome au sanctuaire." Leaving the French to their joke, and declining to speculate whether English madness be not perhaps the consequence of that great wit of which Pope speaks : " Great wit to madness surely is allied, And thin partitions do their bounds divide," in which case the English nation might bear the gibes of their continental friends with more equanimity for the sake of the compliment involved ; the following specimens of our ancient and modern lyrics of madness may be permitted to speak for themselves. 238 MAD SOXOS. THE MAD MAID'S SONG. ROBERT HEBBICK, born 1591. GOOD-MORROW to the day so fair, Good-morrow, sir, to you ; Good-morrow to mine own torn hair, Bedabbled all with dew. Good-morrow to this primrose too ; Good-morrow to each maid, That will with flowers the tomb bestrew Wherein my love is laid. Ah, woe is me woe, woe is me, Alack and well-a-day ! For pity, sir, find out that bee Which bore my love away. 1 '11 seek him in your bonnet brave ; I '11 seek him in your eyes ; Nay, now I think they 've made his grave In the bed of strawberries. I '11 seek him there, I know ere this The cold, cold earth doth shake him ; But I will go, or send a kiss By you, sir, to awake him. Pray hurt him not ; though he be dead, He knows well who do love him, And who with green turfs rear his head, And who so rudely move him. He 's soft and tender, pray take heed ; With bands of cowslips bind him, And bring him home ; but 'tis decreed That I shall never find him. MAD SONGS 239 THE MAD LOVER. ALEXANDER BBOME, born 1620, died 1666. I HAVE been in love, and in debt, and in drink This many and many year ; And those three are plagues enough, one would think, For one poor mortal to bear. 'Twas drink made me fall into love, And 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 '11 fall to loving and drinking again. THE MAD SHEPHERDESS. MY lodging is on the cold ground, And very hard is my fare ; But that which troubles me most is The unkindness of my dear ; Yet still I cry, O turn love, And I prithee, love, turn to me, For thou art the man that I long for, And alack ! what remedy ! I'll crown thee with a garland of straw then, And I'll marry thee with a rush ring, My frozen hopes shall thaw then, And merrily we will sing ; turn to me my dear love, And I prithee, love, turn to me, For thou art the man who alone canst Procure my liberty. 240 MAD SONGS. But if thou wilt harden thy heart still, And be deaf to my pitiful moan ! Then I must endure the smart still, And lie in my straw all alone ; Yet still I cry, turn love, And I prithee, love, turn to me, For thou art the man that alone art The cause of my misery. This song, of which the air is claimed both by the Scotch and the Irish, and which has been rendered familiar to modern ears, by the beautiful version in Moore's Irish Melodies " Believe me if all those endearing young charms "was introduced into Davenant's Comedy of " The Rivals," 1668 ; but is probably still older. The phrase to " marry with a rush ring," is introduced in the ancient ballad of " The Winchester Wedding :" " And Tommy was loving to Kitty, And wedded her with a rush ring." Meaning a marriage without the rites of religion, and to be dissolved at the will of the parties as easily as a rush ring may be broken. TOM A BEDLAM, OR MAD TOM. WILLIAM BASSE ; from " The English Dancing Master," 1651. FORTH from my dark and dismal cell, Or from the dark abyss of hell, Mad Tom is come, to view the world again, To see if he can cure his distemper'd brain. Fears and cares oppress my soul ! Hark ! how the angry furies howl ; Pluto laughs, and Proserpine is glad, To see poor angry Tom of Bedlam bad. Thro' the world I wander night and day. To find my straggling senses; In angry mood I meet old Time, With his pentateuch of tenses. When me he spies, away he flies, For time will stay for no man: In vain with cries I rend the skies, For pity is not common. \ Cold and comfortless I lie, Help ! help ! or else 1 die. MAD SONGS. 241 Hark ! I hear Apollo's team, The carman 'gins to whistle, Chaste Dian' bends her bow. And the boar begins to bristle. Come, Vulcan, with tools and with tackle, And knock off my troublesome shackle ; Bid Charles make ready his wain, To bring me my senses again. Last night I heard the dog-star bark ; Mars met Venus in the dark; Limping Vulcan beat an iron bar, And furiously made at the god of war. Mars, with his weapon, laid about; Limping Vulcan had got the gout; His broad horns did so hang in his light, That he could not see to aim his blows aright. Mercury the nimble post of heaven, Stood still to see the quarrel; Barrel-belly'd Bacchus, giant like, Bestride a strong beer barrel; To me he drank whole butts, Until he burst his guts; But mine were ne'er the wider. Poor Tom is very dry : A little drink for charity. Hark! I hear Actaeon's hounds, The huntsman's whoop and hallo; Bingwood, Rockwood, Jowler, Bowman, All the chase do follow. The man in the moon drinks claret, Eats powder'd beef, turnip, and carrot; But a cup of old Malaga sack Will fire the bush at his back. " The words of the latter half of this song are not now sung. Another song, set by George Bayden, also called ' Mad Tom,' has been ' stitched ' upon it." CHAPTBLL . O 242 MAO SONGS. THE DISTRACTED LOVER. HENBY CABKY. I oo to the Elysian shade, Where sorrow ne'er shall wound me; Where nothing shall my rest invade, But joy shall still surround me. I fly from Celia's cold disdain, From her disdain I fly; She is the cause of all my pain ; For her alone I die. Her eyes are brighter than the mid-day sun, When he but half his radiant course has run, When his meridian glories gaily shine, And gild all nature with a warmth divine. See yonder river's flowing tide, Which now so full appears; Those streams, that do so swiftly glide, Are nothing but my tears. There I have wept till I could weep no more, And curst my eyes, when they have wept their store Then, like the clouds, that rob the azure main, I've drain'd the flood to weep it back again. Pity my pains, Ye gentle swains! Cover me with ice and snow; I scorch, I burn, I flame, I glow! Fairies tear me, Quickly bear me, To the dismal shades below! Where yelling, and howling, And grumbling, and growling, Strike the ear with horrid woe. Hissing snakes, Fiery lakes, Would be a pleasure, and a cure ; Not all the hells Where Pluto dwells, Can give such pain as I endure. MAD SONGS. 243 To some peaceful plain convey me, On a mossy carpet lay me, Fan me with ambrosial breeze; Let me die, and so have ease ! The " Distracted Lover" was written by Henry Carey, a celebrated composer of music, at the beginning of the eighteenth century, and author of several little theatrical enter- tainments, which are enumerated in the " Companion to the Playhouse," &c. The sprightliness of this songster's fancy could not preserve him from a veiy melancholy catas- trophe, which was effected by his owu hand. PERCY. OLD MAD TOM. From " The Thrush," 1749. I 'M old mad Tom, behold me ! My wits are quite unframed ; I 'm mad, I 'm sure, and past all cure, And in hopes of being proclaimed. 1 11 mount the frosty mountains, And there I '11 skim the weather ; I '11 pluck the rainbow from the sky, And I '11 splice both ends together. I '11 mount the pride of marble, And there I '11 fright the gipsies ; And I '11 play at bowls with sun and moon, And win them with eclipses. I 'prentice was to Vulcan, And serv'd my master faithful, In making tools for jovial fools, But, ye gods, ye proved unfaithful. The stars pluck'd from their orbs, too, I '11 put them in my budget ; And if I 'm not a roaring boy, Then let the nation judge it. 244 MAD SONGS. CRAZY JANE. M. G. LEWIS, born 1773, died 1818. WHY, fair maid, in every feature Are such signs of fear express'd 1 Can a wand'ring wretched creature With such terror fill thy breast ? Do my frenzied looks alarm thee ? Trust me, sweet, thy fears are vain ; Not for kingdoms would I harm thee ; Shun not, then, poor Crazy Jane. Dost thou weep to see my anguish 1 Mark me, and avoid my woe : When men flatter, sigh, and languish, Think them false I found them so. For I loved, ah ! so sincerely None could ever love again ; But the youth I loved so dearly Stole the wits of Crazy Jane. Fondly my young heart received him, Which was doom'd to love but one. He sigh'd he vow'd 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 ! MAD SONGS. 215 OH, FOR MY TRUE LOVE. From the Myrfle and the Vine," 1800. DOWN by the river there grows a green willow, Sing, oh ! for my true-love, my true-love, oh ! I '11 weep out the night there, the bank for my pillow, And all for my true-love, my true-love, oh ! When chill blows the wind, and tempests are beating, 1 11 count all the clouds as I mark them retreating, For true lovers' joys, well-a-day, are as fleeting ; Sing all for my true-love, my true-love, oh ! Maids, come in pity, when I am departed, Sing, oh ! for my true-love, my true-love, oh ! When dead on the bank I am found broken hearted, And all for my true-love, my true-love, oh ! Make me a grave, all while the wind's blowing, Close to the stream where my tears once were flowing, And over my corse keep the green willow glowing, 'Tis all for my true-love, my true-love, oh ! THE DISTRACTED MAID. From " The Myrtle and the Vine." ONE morning very early, one morning in the spring, I heard a maid in Bedlam who mournfully did sing ; Her chains she rattled on her hands while sweetly thus sung she ; " I love my love, because I know my love Loves me. " O cruel were his parents who sent my love to sea ! And cruel cruel was the ship that bore my love from me ! Yet I love his parents since they 're his, altho' they 've ruined me ; And I love my love, because I know my love loves me. " should it please the pitying powers, to call me to the sky, I 'd claim a guardian angel's charge around my love to fly; To guard him from all dangers how happy should I be ! For I love my love, because I know my love loves me. HAD SONGS. " I '11 make a strawy-garland, 1 11 make it wondrous fine, With roses, lilies, daisies, I '11 mix the eglantine ; And I '11 present it to my love when he returns from sea, For I love my love because I know my love loves me. " Oh, if I were a little bird to build upon his breast, Or if I were a nightingale to sing my love to rest ! To gaze upon his lovely eyes all my reward should be ; For I love my love, because I know my love loves me. " Oh, if I were an eagle to soar into the sky ! I 'd gaze around with piercing eyes where I my love might spy ; But, ah ! unhappy maiden, that love you ne'er shall see : Yet I love my love, because I know my love loves me." THE MAD GIRL'S SONG. THOMAS DIBDIH. From the " Last Lays of the Three Dibdins," 1834. ! TAKE me to your arms, love, For keen the wind doth blow ; ! take me to your arms, my love, For bitter is my woe. She hears me not, she cares not, Nor will she list to me ; And here I lie in misery, Beneath the Willow Tree. 1 once had gold and silver ; I thought them without end : I once had gold and silver ; I thought I had a friend. My wealth is lost, my friend is false, My love is stol'n from me ; And here I lie in misery, Beneath the Willow Tree. MAD 80XGS. 247 THE MANIAC. Partly by G. M. LBWIS, Author of "The Monk," and partly by HENBV RUSSRLI., Composer of the Music. HUSH ! 'tis the night-watch : he guards my lonely cell ; He comes, he comes this way ! Yes ; 'tis the night-watch ; I mark his glimmering lamp ; I see its distant ray. Oh, release me ! oh, release me ! No, by Heaven no, by Heaven, I am not mad ! I loved her sincerely, I loved her too dearly, I loved her in sorrow, in joy, and in pain ; But my heart is forsaken, yet ever will awaken, The mem'ry of bliss which will ne'er come again. I see her dancing in the hall, I see her dancing in the hall ! No, by Heaven no, by Heaven, I am not mad ! Oh, release me, &c. He quits the grate, he turns the key ; He quits the grate ; I knelt in vain ; His glimmering lamp still, still I see, And all is gloom again. Cold, bitter cold ; no life, no light ; Life, all thy comforts once I had, But here I 'm chained this freezing night ; No, by Heaven no, by Heaven, I am not mad ! Oh, release me, &c. For lo, you ! while I speak, Mark how yon demon's eye-balls glare He sees me now ; with dreadful shriek He whirls me in the air ; Horror ! the reptile strikes his tooth Deep in my heart, so crushed and sad. Aye, laugh, ye fiends laugh, laugh, ye fiends ! Yes, by Heaven they 've driven me mad ! I see her dancing in the hall Oh, release me oh, release me ! Yes, by Heaven yes, by Heaven, they 've driven me mad ! MISCELLANEOUS SONGS. n UNDER THE GREEN WOOD TREE. WILLIAM SHAKSPEARE ; from " As Yon Like it" UNDER the green-wood tree, Who loves to lie with me, And tune his merry note Unto the sweet bird's throat, Come hither, come hither, come hither ! Here shall he see No enemy, But winter and rough weather. Who doth ambition shun, And loves to lie i' the sun ; Seeking the food he eats, And pleas'd with what he gets, Come hither, come hither, come hither ; Here shall he see No enemy, But winter and rough weather. MISCELLANEOUS SONGS. 249 WINTER. WILLIAM SHAKSPEARE, from " Love's Labour Lost." 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 the pail ; When blood is nipt, and ways be foul, Then nightly sings the staring owl, Tu-whoo ! Tu-whit ! tu-whoo ! a merry 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 Marion's nose looks red and raw ; When roasted crabs hiss in the bowl, Then nightly sings the staring owl, Tu-whoo ! Tu-whit ! Tu-whoo ! a merry note. While greasy Joan doth keel the pot. BLOW, BLOW THOU WINTER WIND. WILLIAM SHAKSPEAEE, from " As You Like it" BLOW, blow, thou winter wind, Thou art not so unkind, As man's ingratitude ! Thy tooth is not so keen, Because thou art not seen, Although thy breath be rude. Heigh, ho ! sing heigh, ho ! unto the green holly, Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly. Then heigh, ho ! the holly ! This life is most jolly. Freeze, freeze, thou bitter sky ; Thou dost not bite so nigh p 250 MISCELLANEOUS SONGS. As benefits forgot ! Though thou the waters warp, Thy sting is not so sharp As friend remember 'd not. Heigh, ho ! &c. &c. YOUTH AND AGE. CRABBED Age and Youth Cannot live together, Youth is full of pleasure Age is full of care. Youth like summer morn Age like winter weather ; Youth like summer, brave Age like winter bare ; Youth is full of sport Age's 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, Oh, my love my love is gone. Age, I do defy thee. Oh, sweet shepherd, hie thee ; Methinks thou stay'st too long. " This song," says Bishop Percy, " is found in the little collection of Shakgpeare's sonnets, entitled ' The Passionate Pilgrim.' In the ' Garland of the Good-will,' it is reprinted with the addition of four more such stanzas, but evidently written by a meaner pen." IN PRAISE OF MELANCHOLY. HENCE all you vain delights, As short as are the nights Wherein you spend your folly ! There's nought in this life sweet, If man were wise to see 't, But only melancholy ; Oh, sweetest melancholy ! MISCELLANEOUS SONGS. 251 Welcome, folded arms, and fixed eyes, A sigh that piercing mortifies, A look that's fasten'd to the ground, A tongue chain'd up without a sound ! Fountain-heads, and pathless groves, Places which pale passion loves ! Moonlight walks, when all the fowls Are warmly housed save bats and owls ! A midnight bell, a parting groan ! These are the sounds we feed upon ; Then stretch our bones in a still gloomy valley ; Nothing's so dainty sweet as lovely melancholy. / Milton was possibly under some obligations to this beautiful song, when he wrote his " II Penseroeo." Hazlitt calls it " the perfection of this kind of writing." (Lectures on Dram. Lit. 1840, p. 208.) It is generally attributed to Fletcher, who introduced it in the play of " The Nice Valour," act iii. sc. 3 ; but the author was more probably Dr. William Strode. See " Notes and Queries," vol. i. LOSS IX DELAYS. KUBEBT SOUTHWEIX, bom 1562, died 1596. SHUN delays, they breed remorse, Take thy time, while time is lent thee ; Creeping snails have weakest force, Fly their fault, lest thou repent thee : Good is best when soonest wrought, Lingering labour comes to nought. Hoist up sail, while gale doth last, Tide and wind stay no man's pleasure ; Seek not time when time is past, Sober speed is wisdom's leisure : After- wits are dearly bought, Let thy fore-wit guide thy thought. Time wears all his locks before, Take thou hold upon his forehead ; When he flies he turns no more, And behind, his scalp is naked : \Vorks adjourn'd have many stays, Long demurs breed new delays. 252 MISCELLANEOUS SONGS. Seek thy salve while sore is green, Fester'd wounds ask deeper lancing ; After-cures are seldom seen, Often sought, scarce ever chancing : Time and place give best advice, Out of season, out of price. PANGLORY'S WOOING SONG. GILES FLETCHER, born 1588, died 1623. LOVE is the blossom where there blows, Every thing that lives or grows ; Love doth make the heavens to move, And the sun doth burn in love : Love, the strong and weak doth yoke, And makes the ivy climb the oak, Under whose shadows, lions wild, Soften'd by love, grow tame and mild. Love, no med'cine can appease ; He burns the fishes in the seas ; Not all the skill his wounds can stanch. Not all the sea his thirst can quench. Love did make the bloody spear Once a leafy coat to wear, While in his leaves there shrouded lay Sweet birds, for love that sing and play ; And of all love's joyful flame I the bud and blossom am. Only lend thy knee to me, Thy wooing shall thy winning be ! See, see, the flowers that below Now freshly as the morning blow, And of all, the virgin rose, That as bright Aurora shows ; How they all unleaved die Losing their virginity : Lake unto a summer shade, But now born, and now they fade, Every thing doth pass away ; There is danger in delay. MISCELLANEOUS SONGS. 2S3 Come, come, gather then the rose ; Gather it, or it you lose. All the sand of Tagus' shore, In my bosom casts its ore : All the valleys' swimming corn, To my house is yearly borne : Every grape of every vine Is gladly bruised to make me wine ; While ten thousand kings, as proud To carry up my train, have bow'd, And a world of ladies send me From my chamber to attend me : All the stars in heaven that shine, And ten thousand more, are mine. Only bend thy knee to me, Thy wooing shall thy winning be. THE COMMENDATION OF MUSIC. WILLIAM STEODE, born 1600, died 1644. THEN whispering strains do softly steal With creeping passion through the heart, And at every touch we feel Our pulses beat, and bear a part ; When threads can make A heart-string quake ; Philosophy Can scarce deny, The soul consists of harmony. Oh, lull me, lull me, charming air, My senses rock'd with wonder sweet ! Like snow on wool thy fallings are, Soft like a spirit are thy feet. Grief, who need fear That hath an ear ? Down let him lie, And slumbering die, And change his soul for harmony. From a Miscellany, entitled " Wit Restored," 12mo. published 1658. 254 MISCELLANEOUS SONGS. SWEET DAY, SO COOL. GBOBGK HBBBEBT, born 1583, died 1632. SWEET Day, so cool, so calm, so bright, The bridal of the earth and sky, Sweet dews shall weep thy fall to-night, For thou must die ! Sweet Rose, whose hue, angry and brave, Bids the rash gazer wipe his eye, Thy root is ever in its grave, And thou must die ! Sweet Spring, full of sweet days and roses, A box where sweets compacted lie ; My music shows you have your closes, And all must die ! Only a sweet and virtuous soul, Like season'd timber, never gives, But when the whole world turns to coal, Then chiefly lives ! TO ALTHEA, FROM PRISON. RICHABD LOVELACE, born 1618, died 1658. WHEN love with unconfined wings Hovers withiu my gates, And my divine Althea brings To whisper at my grates ; When I lie tangl'd 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 rouses 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. MISCELLANEOUS SONGS. 25f> When like committed linnets, I With shriller throat shall sing The sweetness, mercy, majesty, And glories of my king : 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 a hermitage : If I have freedom in my love, And in my soul am free, Angels alone, that soar above, Enjoy such liberty. This song to Althea will live as long as the English language. ROBEBT SOCTHEV, HOPE. From ALISON'S " Hour's Recreations in Music," 1606. IN hope a king doth go to war ; In hope a lover lives full long ; In hope a merchant sails full far; In hope just mcu do suffer wrong ; In hope the ploughman sows his seed : Thus hope helps thousands at their need. Then faint not, heart, among the rest ; Whatever chance, hope thou the best. MAN'S MORTALITY. SIMON WASTELL, from the ' Microbiblia," 1623. LIKE as the damask rose you see, Or like the blossom on the tree, Or like the dainty flower in May, Or like the morning of the day, Or like the sun, or like the shade, Or like the gourd which Jonas had. 256 MISCELLANEOUS SONGS. E'en such is man ; whose thread is spun, Drawn out, and cut, and so is done. The rose withers, the blossom blasteth, The flower fades, the morning hasteth, The sun sets, the shadow flies, The gourd consumes, and man he dies ! Like to the grass that 's newly sprung, Or like a tale that 's new begun, Or like the bird that 's here to-day, Or like the pearled dew of May, Or like an hour, or like a span, Or like the singing of a swan. E'en such is man ; who lives by breath, Is here, now there, in life and death. The grass withers, the tale is ended, The bird is flown, the dew 's ascended, The hour is short, the span is long, The swan's near death, man's life is done ! HASTE THEE, NYMPH. JOHN MILTON. HASTE thee, Nymph, and bring with thee Jest and youthful Jollity ; Quips, and cranks, and wanton wiles, Nods, and becks, and wreathed smiles, Such as hang on Hebe's cheek, And love to live in dimple sleek ; Sport that wrinkled Care derides, And Laughter holding both his sides. Ha ! ha ! ha ! ha ! The music of this song was imposed by Handel for the Oratorio of '"Coraus," and adapted to this purpose from the beautiful poem of " L' Allegro '' MISCELLANEOUS SONGS 257 MAY MORNING. JOHN MILTON. Now the bright morning star, day's harbinger, Comes dancing from the east, and leads with her The flowery May, who from her green lap throws The yellow cowslip, and the pale primrose. Hail, bounteous May, that dost inspire Mirth, and youth, and warm desire ! Woods and groves are of thy dressing : Hill and dale doth boast thy blessing, Thus we salute thee with our early song, And welcome thee, and wish thee long ! P2 358 MISCELLANEOUS SONGS. GO, LOVELY ROSE. EDMUSD WALLEB, born 1603, died 1687 Go, lovely Rose ! Tell her that wastes her time and me. That now she knows, When I resemble her to thee, How sweet and fair she seems to be. Tell her that 's young, And shuns to have her graces spied, That had'st 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. MISCELLANEOUS SONGS. 259 [Yet, though thou fade, From thy dead leaves let fragrance rise ; And teach the maid That goodness Time's rude hand defies, That virtue lives when beauty dies.] The last stanza was added by Henry Kirke White, and is the crowning grace of a beautiful poem, which would scarcely have been complete without it. THE FAIRIES' SONG. Anonymous. From the Tixall Poetry, temp. Charles I. WE dance on hills above the wind, And leave our footsteps there behind, Which shall to after ages last, When all our dancing days are past. Sometimes we dance upon the shore, To whistling winds and seas that roar, Then we make the wind to blow, And set the seas a-dancing too. The thunder's noise is our delight, ^fnd lightnings make us day by night ; And in the air we dance on high, To the loud music of the sky. About the moon we make a ring, And falling stars we wanton fling, Like squibs and rockets, for a toy, While what frights others is our joy But when we 'd hunt away our cares, We boldly mount the galloping spheres And riding so from east to west, We chase each nimble zodiac beast. Thus, giddy grown, we make our beds, With thick black clouds to rest our heads, And flood the earth with our dark showers, That did but sprinkle these our bowers. 260 MISCELLANEOUS SONGS. Thus, having done with orbs and sky, Those mighty spaces vast and high, Then down we come and take the shapes, Sometimes of cats, sometimes of apes. Next tum'd to mites in cheese, forsooth, We get into some hollow tooth ; Wherein, as in a Christmas hall, We frisk and dance, the devil and all. Then we change our wily features, Into yet far smaller creatures, And dance in joints of gouty toes, To painful tunes of groans and woes. IN SUMMER TIME. TOM D'UEFEY, born 1628, died 1723. IN summer time, when flow'rs do spring, And birds sit on each tree, Let lords and knights say what they will, There 's none so merry as we. There 's Tom with Nell, Who bears the bell, And Willy with pretty Betty ; how they skip it, Caper and trip it, Under the greenwood tree ! Our music is a little pipe, That can so sweetly play ; We hire old Hal from Whitsuntide Till latter Lammas-day; On Sabbath days, And holy-days, After evening prayer comes he ; And then we skip it, Caper, and trip it, Under the greenwood tree. MISCELLANEOUS SONGS. " Come, play us Adam and Eoe" says Dick, " What 's that ? " says little Pipe; " The Beginning of the World," 1 quoth Dick, " For we are dancing-ripe ; " " Is 't that you call? Then have at all ! " He played with merry glee ; then did we skip it, Caper, and trip it, Under the greenwood tree. O'er hills and dales, to Whitsun-ales, We dance a merry fytte ; When Susan sweet with John doth meet, She gives him hit for hit From head to foot She holds him to 't, And jumps as high as he ; how they spring it, Flounce and fling it, Under the greenwood tree ! My lord's son must not be forgot, So full of merry jest ; He laughs to see the girls so hot, And jumps it with the rest. No time is spent With more content, In camp, or court, or city, So long as we skip it, Frisk it and trip it, Under the greenwood tree. We oft go to Sir William's ground, And a rich old cub is he ; And there we dance, around, around, But never a penny we see. From thence we get To Somerset, 1 A favourite dance-tune in the seventeenth century. 202 MISCELLANEOUS SONGS. Where men are frolic and free, And there do we skip it, Frisk it and trip it, Under the greenwood tree. We fear no plots of Jews or Scots, For we are jolly swains ; With plough and cow, and barley-mow, We bury all our brains. No city cares, Nor merchant's fears Of wreck or piracy ; Therefore we skip it, Frisk it and trip it, Under the greenwood tree. On meads and lawns we trip like fauns, Like fillies, kids, and lambs ; We have no twinge to make us cringe, Or crinkle in the hams ; When the day is spent, With one consent, Again we all agree, To caper and skip it, Trample and trip it, Under the greenwood tree. SIR JOHN BARLEYCORN. From " The English Dancing-Master ; or, Plain and Easy Rules Country Dances," 1651. As I went through the North country, I heard a merry meeting ; A pleasant toy, and full of joy, Two noblemen were greeting. And as they walked forth to shoot, Upon a summer's day, They met another nobleman, With whom they had a fray. MISCELLANEOUS SONGS. 263 His name was Sir John Barley-corn, He dwelt down in a dale ; Who had a kinsman dwelt him nigh, They called him Thomas Good-ale. Another named Richard Beer, Was ready at that time ; Another worthy knight was there, Call'd Sir William White-wine. Some of them fought in a blackjack, Some of them in a can ; But the chiefest in a black pot, Like a worthy nobleman. Sir Barley-corn fought in a bowl, Who won the victory ; Which made them all to fume and swear That Barley-corn should die. Some said " kill him," some said " drown, Others wish to hang him high, For as many as follow Barley-corn, Shall surely beggars die. Then with a plough they ploughed him up. And this they did devise, To bury him quick within the earth, And swore he should not rise. With harrows strong they combed him, And burst clods on his head, A joyful banquet then was made, When Barley-corn was dead. He rested still within the earth, Till rain from skies did fall, Then he grew up in branches green, Which sore amazed them all. And so grew up till Midsummer ; He made them all afraid, For he was sprouted up on high, And got a goodly beard. 264 MISCELLANEOUS SONGS. Then he grew till St. James's-tide, His countenance was wan ; For he was grown unto his strength, And thus became a man. With hooks and eke with sickles keen, Unto the fields they hied, They cut his legs off by the knees, And made him wounds full wide. Thus bloodily they cut him down, From place where he did stand, And like a thief for treachery, They bound him in a band. So then they took him up again, According to his kind, And packed him up in several stacks, To wither with the wind. And with a pitchfork that was sharp, They rent him to the heart, And like a thief for treason vile, They bound him in a cart. And tending him with weapons strong, Unto the town they hie, And straight they moor'd him in a mow, And there they let him lie. Then he lay groaning by the walls, Till all his wounds were sore ; At length they took him up again, And cast him on the floor. They hired two with holly clubs, To beat at him at once ; They thwacked so hard on Barley-corn That flesh fell from his bones. And then they took him up again, To fulfil women's mind, They dusted and they sifted him, 'Till he was almost blind. MISCELLANEOUS SONGS. And then they knit him in a sack, Which grieved him full sore ; They steep'd him in a vat, God wot, For three days' space and more. And then they took him up again, And laid him for to dry, They cast him on a chamber-floor, And swore that he should die. They rubbed him and stirred him, And oft did toil and turn, The malt-man likewise vowed his death, His body he would burn. They pulled and hauled him up in spite, And threw him on a kiln, And dried him o'er a fire bright, The more to work their will. Then to the mill they forced him straight, Where, as they bruised his bones, The miller swore to murder him Betwixt a pair of stones. The last time when they took him up, They served him worse than that, For with hot scalding liquor store, They washed him in a vat. But not content with this, God wot, They wrought him so much harm, With cruel threat they promised next To beat him in a barn. And lying in this danger deep, For fear that he should quarrel, They took him straight out of the vat, And turned him in a barrel. And then they set a tap to him; Even thus his death begun, They drew out every drop of blood. Whilst any drop would run. Q 266 MISCELLANEOUS SOXGS. Some brought jacks upon their backs, Some brought bill and bow, And every man his weapon had, Barley-corn to overthrow. When Sir John Good-ale heard of this He came with mickle might, And then he took their tongues away, Their legs, or else their sight. Sir John, at least, in each respect So paid them all their hire, That some lay sleeping by the walls, Some tumbling in the mire. Some lay groaning by the walls, Some fell in the street downright, The best of them did scarcely know, What he had done o'er-night. All you good wives that brew good ale, God keep you from all teen, But if you put too much water in, The devil put out your eyne ! This ballad, of which a modem version, slightly altered from the above by Robert Burns, has beome more popular than its prototype, was originally sung to the tune of " Stingo," or " Oyle of Barley." The same tune was afterwards called " Cold and Raw." " This tune," says Sir John Hawkins, in his History of Music, " was greatly admired by Queen Mary, the consort of King William ; and she once affronted Pin-cell by requesting to have it sung to her, he being present. Thestoryis as follows: The Queen having a mind, one afternoon, to be entertained with music, sent to Mr. Gosling, then one of her Chapel, and afterwards Sub-Dean of St. Paul's, to Henry Purcsll, and to Mrs. Arabella Hunt, who had a very fine voice, and an admirable hand on the lute, with a request to attend her. They obeyed her commands. Mr. Gosling and Mrs. Hunt sang several compositions of Pnrcell, who accompanied them on the harpsichord. At length, the Queen, beginning to grow tired, asked Mrs. Hunt if she could not sing the ballad of ' Cold and Raw ;' Mrs. Hunt answered, yes, and sung it to her lute. Purcell was all the while sitting at the harpsichord, unem- ployed, and not a little nettled at the Queen's preference of a vulgar ballad to his music, but seeing her Majesty delighted with this tune, he determined that she should hear it upon another occasion ; and, accordingly, in the next birth-day song ; viz. that for the year, 1692 ; he composed an air to the words ' May her bright example chace vice in troops out of tho land,' the bass whereof is the tune to ' Cold and Raw.' " MISCELLANEOUS SONGS. 267 THE FAIRY QUEEN. From " Percy's Kelics." COME, follow, follow me, You, fairy elves that be : Which circle on the green, Come, follow Mab your queen. Hand in hand let 's dance around, For this place is fairy ground. When mortals are at rest, And snoring in their nest ; Unheard, and unespied, 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, and bowl, Up stairs we nimbly creep, And find the sluts asleep : There we pinch their arms and thighs ; None escapes, nor none espies. But if the house be swept, And from uncleanness kept, We praise the household maid, And duly she is paid ; For we use before we go To drop a tester in her shoe. Upon a mushroom's 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 fill'd to the brink. The brains of nightingales, With unctuous fat of snail*, Between two cockles stew'd, Is meat that 's easily chew'd ; Q 2 268 MISCELLANEOUS SONGS. Tails of worms, and marrow of mice, Do make a dish that 's wondrous nice. The grasshopper, gnat, and fly, Serve for our minstrelsy ; Grace said, we dance a while, And so the time beguile : And if the moon doth 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 VVhere we the night before have been. We have here a short display of the popular belief concerning fairies. It will afford entertainment to a contemplative mind to trace these whimsical opinions up to their origin. Whoever considers how early, how extensively, and how uniformly, they have prevailed in these nations, will not readily assent to the hypothesis of those who fetch them from the East so late as the time of the Crusades. Whereas it is well known that our Saxon ancestors, long before they left their German forests, believed in the existence of a kind of diminutive demons, or middle species between men and spirits whom they called Duergars or Dwarfs, and to whom they attributed many wonderful performances, far excaeding human art. Vid. Hervarer Saga Olaj Verelj. 1675. Hickes Thesaur, &c. This song is given (with some corrections by another copy) from a book entitled "The Mysteries of Love and Eloquence, &c." Lond. 1658. 8vo. Dr. PEECY. AWAY WITH GRIEF. From HUGH CBOMPTON'S " Pierides, or the Muses Mount," 1658 AWAY, thou gnawing worm, fond grief ! Away from me, away : Thy absence is my sweet relief ; Then flee, without delay. He that gives way to woe and sorrow, May grieve to-day, and mourn to-morrow. Go now into another zone, Where mortal brains are light, And press them down ; I 've need of none, Since I have felt thy weight : He that shall change his frown to laughter, May laugh to-day, and sing hereafter: MISCELLANEOUS SONGS. I tried you both, and know you well, But do not like you so : A light heart has no parallel ; But oh ! the pangs of woe ! Yet woe the heart can never shoot, If thought be not the porter to 't. Suppose you, then, that all is good, And in that thought repose ; This will allay that fiery blood, Which in thy body flows : And mark me now,^for this is chief, - Nothing on earth requireth grief. If accident should chance to fall, It falls from heaven above ; Then let no poverty or thrall, Your soaring spirits move : Nothing but sin can grief require ; Then grieve for sin, else grief, expire. THE JOVIAL BEGGARS. From " Playford's Choice Aires," 1660. THERE was a jovial beggar, He had a wooden leg, Lame from his cradle, And forced for to beg. And a begging we will go, will go, will go, And a begging we will go. A bag for his oatmeal, Another for his salt, And a pair of crutches To show that he can halt. And a begging, &c. 270 MISCELLANEOUS SONGS. A bag for his wheat, Another for his rye, And a little bottle by his side, To drink when he 's a dry. And a begging, &c. Seven years I begged For my old master Wild, He taught me to beg When I was but a child. And a begging, &c. I begged for my master, And got him store of pelf, But, Jove now be praised, I 'm begging for myself. And a begging, &c. In a hollow tree I live and pay no rent Providence provides for me, And I am well content. And a begging, &c. Of all the occupations, A beggar's life 's the best, For, whenever he 's a-weary, He can lay him down to rest. And a begging, &c. I fear no plots against me, I live in open cell, Then who would be a king When beggars live so well ? And a begging we will go, &c. This song is the prototype of many others In the English language, including the popu- lar favourite, "A Hunting we will go," which appears among the sporting songs in tlii volume, and " A Sailing we will go," which appears among the sea songs. MISCELLANEOUS SOSGS. 2/i THE PRAISE OF MILK. From " Playford's Musical Companion," Part II., 1687. IN praise of a dairy I purpose to sing, But all things in order first, God save the King. And the Queen, I may say, Who every May-day, Has many fine dairy-maids, all fine and gay : Assist me, fair damsels, to finish my theme, Inspiring my fancy with strawberry cream. The first of fair dairy-maids, if you'll believe, Was Adam's own wife, our great grandmother Eve, Who oft milked a cow, As well she knew how, Tho' butter was then not so cheap as 'tis now : She hoarded no butter nor cheese on a shelf, For butter and cheese in those days made itself. In that age or time there was no horrid money, Yet the children of Israel had both milk and honey. No queen could you see, Of the highest degree, But would milk the brown cow with the meanest she : Their lambs gave them clothing, their cows gave them meat, And in plenty and peace all their joys were complete. Amongst the rare virtues that milk does produce, For a thousand of dainties it's daily in use ; Now a pudding, I'll tell ye, Ere it goes in the belly, Must have from good milk both the cream and the jelly : For a dainty fine pudding, without cream or milk, Is a citizen's wife, without satin or silk. In the virtues of milk there is more to be muster'd Than charming delights both of cheese cake and custard, For at Tottenham Court You can have no sport, Unless you have custard and cheese-cake too for 't. And what's the jack-pudding that makes us to laugh, Unless he hath got a great custard to quaff. 272 MISCELLANEOUS SONGS. Both pancake and fritter, of milk have good store, Bu-t a Devonshire Nvhite-pot must needs have much more. No state you can think Though you study and wink, From the lusty sack-posset to pour posset drink, But milk's the ingredient, tho' sack's ne'er the worse, For 't is sack makes the man, tho' 't is milk makes the nurse. THE OLD MAN'S WISH. Dr. WALTER POPE, born about 1630, died 1714. IF I live to grow old, for I find I go down, Let this be my fate : in a country town, May I have a warm house, with a stone at the gate, And a cleanly young girl to rub my bald pate. May I govern my passions with absolute sway, And grow wiser and better, as strength wears away, Without gout or stone, by a gentle decay. Near a shady grove, and a murmuring brook, With the ocean at distance, whereon I may look ; With a spacious plain, without hedge or stile, And an easy pad-nag to ride out a mile. May I govern my passions with absolute sway, And grow wiser and better, as strength wears away, Without gout or stone, by a gentle decay. With Horace and Petrarch, and two or three more Of the best wits that reign'd in the ages before ; With roast mutton, rather than ven'son or veal, And clean, though coarse linen, at every meal. May I govern my passions with absolute sway, And grow wiser and better, as strength wears away, Without gout or stone, by a gentle decay. With a pudding on Sundays, with stout humming liquor, And remnants of Latin to welcome the Vicar ; With Monte Fiascone or Burgundy wine, 1 To drink the King's health as oi't as I dine. Some Tensions substitute for this line, the following : "With a hidden reserve of good Burgundy wine." MISCELLANEOUS SONGS. 273 May I govern my passions with absolute sway, And grow wiser and better, as strength wears away, Without gout or stone, by a gentle decay. With a courage undaunted may I face my last day ; And when I am dead may the better sort say, In the morning when sober, in the evening when mellow, " He 's gone, and has left not behind him his fellow : For he govern'd his passions with absolute sway, And grew wiser and better, as strength wore away, Without gout or stone, by a gentle decay." It seems odd to modern notions, that so sensible a gentleman- who governed his passions with absolute sway should have ever " got mellow " at all. Drunkenness, however, was considered a venial vice in those days, by toe few who did not consider it a positive virtue " in the evening." GENTLY STIR. A parody, attributed to DEAX SWIFT, on a popular song, by A. Bradley (circ. 1740) beginning " Gently strike the warbling lyre." GENTLY stir, and blow the fire, Lay the mutton down to roast ; Dress it quickly, 1 desire ; In the dripping put a toast, That I hunger may remove ; Mutton is the meat I love. On the dresser see it lie, Oh ! the charming white and red ! Finer meat ne'er met my eye, On the sweetest grass it fed : Let the jack go quickly round, Let me have it nicely brown'd. On the table spread the cloth, Let the knives be sharp and clean : Pickles get and sallad both, Let them each be fresh and green : With small beer, good ale, and wine, Oh ! ye gods, how I shall dine ! Several attempts have been made to raise eating into the dignity which drinking has so long enjoyed of being a theme for song but all in vain. " The Roast Beef of Old England" is the only exception, amid a mass of failures. 274 MISCELLANEOUS SONGS. DIRGE IN CYMBELINE. WILLIAM COLLINS, To fair Fi DELE'S grassy tomb Soft maids and village hinds shall bring Each opening sweet of earliest bloom, And rifle all the breathing spring. 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 nigh'tly crew; But female fays shall haunt the green, And dress thy grave with pearly dew. The redbreast oft at evening hours Shall kindly lend his little aid, With hoary moss and gather'd flowers To deck the ground where thou art laid. When howling winds and beating rain In tempests shake the sylvan cell, Or 'midst the chase upon the plain. The tender thought on thee shall dwell. Each lonely scene shall thee restore, For thee the tear be duly shed ; Beloved, till life can charm no more, And mourn' d, till pity's self be dead. SWEET MAY. ERASMUS DABWUT, born 1721, died 1802. BORN in yon blaze of orient sky, Sweet May ! thy radiant form unfold Unclose thy blue voluptuous eye, And wave thy shadowy locks of gold. MISCELLANEOUS SONGS. For Thee the fragrant zephyrs blow, For Thee descends the sunny shower, The rills in softer murmurs flow, And brighter blossoms gem the bower. Light Graces, drest in flowery wreaths, And tiptoe Joys their hands combine ; And Love his sweet contagion breathes, And, laughing, dances round thy shrine. Warm with new life the glittering throngs, On quivering fin and rustling wing, Delighted join their votive songs, And hail thee, Goddess of the Spring. THE FRIAR OF ORDERS GRAY. DB. PERCY, Editor of" Percy's Reliques." IT was a friar of orders gray Walk'd forth to tell his beads ; And he met with a lady fair Clad in a pilgrim's weeds. Now Christ thee save, thou reverend friar, I pray thee tell to me, If ever at yon holy shrine My true love thou didst see. " And how should I know your true love, From many another one?" " 0, by his cockle hat, and staff, And by his sandal shoon. But chiefly by his face and mien, That were so fair to view ; His flaxen locks that sweetly curl'd, And eyes of lovely blue." 270 MISCELLANEOUS SONGS. " lady, he is dead and gone ! Lady, he's dead and gone ! And at his head a green grass turf, And at his heels a stone. Within these holy cloisters long He languish'd, and he died, Lamenting of a lady's love, And 'plaining of her pride. Here bore him barefaced on his bier Six proper youths and tall, And many a tear bedew'd his grave Within yon kirk-yard wall." " And art thou dead, thou gentle youth ! And art thou dead and gone ! And didst thou die for love of me ? Break, cruel heart of stone !" " weep not, lady, weep not so : Some ghostly comfort seek : Let not vain sorrow rive thy heart, Nor tears bedew thy cheek." " do not, do not, holy friar, My sorrow now reprove ; For I have lost the sweetest youth, That e'er won lady's love. And now, alas ! for thy sad loss, I '11 evermore weep and sigh : For thee I only wish'd to live, For thee I wish to die." " Weep no more, lady, weep no more, Thy sorrow is in vain : For violets pluck'd the sweetest show'rs Will ne'er make grow again. MISCELLANEOUS SONGS. 277 Our joys as winged dreams do fly, Why then should sorrow last ? Since grief but aggravates thy loss, Grieve not for what is past." " say not so, thou holy friar ; I pray thee, say not so : For since my true-love died for me, 'Tis meet my tears should flow. And will he never come again 1 Will he ne'er come again ? Ah ! no, he is dead and laid in his grave : For ever to remain. His cheek was redder than the rose ; The comeliest youth was he ! But he is dead and laid in his grave : Alas, and woe is me ! " "Sigh no more, lady, sigh no more, Men were deceivers ever : One foot on sea and one on land, To one thing constant never. Hadst thou been fond, he had been false, And left thee sad and heavy ; For young men ever were fickle found, Since summer trees were leafy." " Now say not so, thou holy friar, I pray thee say not so ; My love he had the truest heart : he was ever true ! And art thou dead, thou much -loved youth, And didst thou die for me ? Then farewell home ; for evermore A pilgrim I will be. But first upon my true-love's grave My weary limbs I '11 lay, And thrice I '11 kiss the green-grass turf, That wraps his breathless clay." 278 MISCELLANEOUS SOXGS. " Yet stay, fair lady: rest awhile Beneath this cloister wall : See through the hawthorn blows the cold wind, And drizzly rain doth fall." " O stay me not, thou holy friar ; O stay me not, I pray ; No drizzly rain that falls on me, Can wash my fault away." " Yet stay, fair lady, turn again, And dry those peariy tears ; For see beneath this gown of gray Thy own true-love appears. Here forced by grief, and hopeless love, These holy weeds I sought ; And here amid these lonely walls To end my days I thought. But haply, for my year of grace Is not yet past away, Might I still hope to win thy love, No longer would I stay." *' Now farewell grief, and welcome joy Once more unto my heart ; For since I have found thee, lovely youth, We never more will part." Dispersed through Shakspeare's plays are innnmerable little fragments of ancient ballads, the entire copies of which could not be recovered. Many of these being of the most beautiful and pathetic simplicity, the Editor of " Percy's Reliques" was tempted to select some of them and with a few supplemental stanzas to connect them together and form them into a little Tale, which is here submitted to the reader's candour. One small fragment was taken from Beaumont and Fletcher. PKBCY. Another fragment was taken from Shafcspeare. E. MISCELLANEOUS SONGS. 279 MERRILY GOES THE MILL. GEORGE COLMAX. MERRILY rolls the mill-stream on. Merrily goes the mill, And merry to-night shall be my song, As ever the gay lark's trill. While the stream shall flow, And the mill shall go, And my garners are bravely stored : Come all who will, There 's a welcome still At the joyful miller's board. Well may the miller's heart be light Well may his song be gay ; For the rich man's smile, and the poor man's pray'r Have been his for many a day. And they bless the name Of the miller's dame In cots where the lowly mourn ; For want and woe At her coming go, And joy and peace return. Fair is the miller's daughter, too, With her locks of golden hair With her laughing eye and sunny brow, Still better is she than fair. She hath lightened toil With her winning smile, And if ever his heart was sad, Let her sing the song He hath loved so long, And the miller's heart was glad. Merrily rolls the mill-stream on, &c. 280 MISCELLANEOUS SONGS. THE MILLER. CHARLES HIORMOBB. Written for Dodsley's entertainment " The King and Miller of Mansfield." How happy a state does the miller possess ! Who would be no greater, nor fears to be less ; On his mill and himself he depends for support, Which is better than servilely cringing at court. What though he all dusty and whiten'd does go, The more he 's bepowder'd, the more like a beau ; A clown in his dress may be honester far Than a courtier, who struts in his garter and star. Though his hands are so daub'd they 're not fit to be seen, The hands of his betters are not very clean A palm more polite may as dirtily deal ; Gold, in handling, will stick to the fingers like meal. What if, when a pudding for dinner he lacks, He cribs, without scruple, from other men's sacks : In this of right noble examples he brags, Who borrow as freely from other men's bags. Or should he endeavour to heap an estate, In this he would mimic the tools of the state ; Whose aim is alone their own coffers to fill, As all his concern 's to bring grist to the mill. He eats when he 's hungry, he drinks when he 's dry, And down when he 's weary contented does lie ; Then rises up cheerful to work and to sing: If so happy a miller, then who 'd be a king ? Th " Miller" seems to have been a favourite character with onr song writers from the earliest times, and to have been generally depicted as a model of stnrdy independence. There Is a song upon the subject in the poems of John Cunningham. See Bell's edition of the " British Poets," vol. ciii. The sentiment in the two concluding line* of the "Miller" is borrowed from the more ancient song of the " Jovial Beggars." MISCELLANEOUS SONGS. THE PRETTY PARROT From AIKIN'S " Vocal Poetry." PRETTY Parrot, say, when I was away, And in dull absence pass'd the day, What at home was doing ? " With chat and play All were gay, Night and day, Good cheer and mirth renewing ; Singing, laughing all, like pretty pretty Poll." Was no fop so rude, boldly to intrude, And like a saucy lover would Court and tease my lady 1 " A thing, you know, Made for show, Call'd a beau, Near her was always ready ; Ever at her call, like pretty pretty Poll." Tell me with what air he approach'd the fair, And how she could with patience bear All he did and utter'd. " He still address'd, Still caress'd, Kiss'd and press'd, Sung, prattled, laugh'd, and flatter'd ; Well received in all, like pretty pretty Poll." Did he go away at the close of day, Or did he ever use to stay In a corner dodging ? " The want of light, When ! t was night, Spoil 'd my sight ; But I believe his lodging Was within her call, like pretty pretty Poll." This lively and singular piece was probably popular at the time of writing the " Beggar Opera,' which has a song to the same measure. It certainly merits preseivation. AIKIN R 282 MISCELLANEOUS SONGS. \VHERE THAMES ALONG THE DAISY'D MEADS. DAVID MALLET, born 1700, died 1765 WHERE Thames along the daisy'd meads, His wave in lucid mazes leads, Silent, slow, serenely flowing, Wealth on either side bestowing, There in a safe though small retreat, Content and love have fixed their seat ; Love, that counts his duty pleasure, Content, that knows and hugs his treasure. From art, from Jealousy secure, As faith unblarned, as friendship pure, Vain opinion nobly scorning, Virtue aiding, life adorning, Fair Thames along thy flowery side, May thou whom Truth and Reason guide All their tender hours improving, Live like us, beloved and loving MISCELLANEOUS SONGS. 283 THERE WAS A JOLLY MILLER. F/om BICKEBSTAFF'S " Love in a Village." 1762. THERE was a jolly miller once lived on the river Dee, He danced and sang from morn till uight, no lark so blithe as he, And this the burden of his song for ever used to be, " I care for nobody, no not I, if nobody cares for me. I liv.e by my mill, God bless her ! she 's kindred, child, and wife, I would not change my station for any other in life : No lawyer, surgeon, or doctor, e'er had a groat from me, I care for nobody, no not I, if nobody cares for me." When spring begins his merry career, oh ! how his heart grows gay. No summer's drought alarms his fears, nor winter's cold decay ; No foresight mars the miller's joy, who's wont to sing and say, " Let others toil from year to year, I live from day to day." Thus, like the miller, bold and free, let us rejoice and sing, The days of youth are made for glee, and time is on the wing ; This song shall pass from me to thee, along the jovial ring, Let heart and voice, and all agree, to say, " Long live the King." The last two stanzas of this popular song appear to be by different hands, and to have been successively added at different times. The original idea is evidently concluded with the second stanza. THE ORIGIN OF THE PATTEN. CHARLES DIBDIN. For the Opera of the " Milkmaid." SWEET ditties would my Patty sing: " Old Chevy-chace," " God save the King ; " " Fair Rosamond," and " Sawney Scott," " Li-li-bu-le-ro," and what not. All these would sing my blue-ey'd Patty, As with her pail she trudged along : While still the burden of her song, My hammer beat to blue-ey'd Patty. 284 MISCELLANEOUS SONGS. But nipping frosts, and chilling rain, Too soon, alas ! choked every strain ; Too soon, alas ! the miry way Her wet-shod feet did sore dismay, And hoarse was heard my blue-ey'd Patty ; While I for very mad did cry, Ah ! could I but again, said I, Hear the sweet voice of blue-ey'd Patty ! Love taught me how ; I work'd, I sang ; My anvil glow'd, my hammer rang, Till I had form'd from out the fire, To bear her feet above the mire, An engine for my blue-ey'd Patty. Again was heard each tuneful close, My fair one in the patten rose, Which takes its name from blue-ey'd Patty. THE UNCOMMON OLD MAN. From the " Convivial Songster," 1782. THERE was an old man, and though 'tis not common, Yet, if he said true, he was born of a woman ; And though 'tis incredible, yet I 've been told He was once a mere infant, but age made him old. Whene'er he was hungry, he long'd for some meat, And if he could get it, 'twas said he would eat ; When thirsty, he'd drink, if you gave him a pot, And his liquor most commonly ran down his throat. He seldom or never could see without light, And yet I 've been told he could hear in the night ; He has oft been awake in the day-time, 'tis said, And has fallen fast asleep as he lay in his bed. 'Tis reported his tongue always moved when he talk'd, And he stirr'd both his arms and his legs when he walk'd And his gait was so odd, had you seen him, you'd burst. For one leg or t'other would always be first. MISCELLANEOUS SOXG3. 285 His face was the saddest that ever was seen, For if 'twere not wash'd it was seldom quite clean ; He show'd most his teeth when he happen'd to grin, And his mouth stood across 'twixt his nose and his chin. At last he fell sick, as old chronicles tell, And then, as folks said, he was not very well ; But, what is more strange, in so weak a condition, As he could not give fees, he could get no physician. What pity he died ! yet 'tis said that his death Was occasion'd at last by the want of his breath ; But peace to his bones, which in ashes now moulder, Had he lived a day longer he'd been a day older. BULGE DOMUM. SING a sweet, melodious measure, Waft enchanting lays around ; Home's a theme replete with pleasure ! Home ! a grateful theme, resound ! Home, sweet home ! an ample treasure ! Home ! with ev'ry blessing crown'd ! Home ! perpetual source of pleasure ! Home ! a noble strain, resound ! Lo ! the joyful hour advances ; Happy season of delight ! Festal songs, and festal dances, All our tedious toil requite. Leave, my wearied muse, thy learning, Leave thy task, so hard to bear ; Leave thy labour, ease returning, Leave my bosom, my care ! See the year, the meadow smiling ! Let us then a smile display : Rural sports our pain beguiling, Rural pastimes call away. MISCELLANEOUS SONGS. Now the swallow seeks her dwelling, And no longer loves to roam ; The example thus impelling, Let us seek our native home ! Let both men and steeds assemble, Panting for the wide champaign ; Let the ground beneath us tremble, While we scour along the plain. . Oh, what raptures ! oh, what blisses! When we gain the lovely gate ! Mothers' arms, and mothers' kisses, There our blest arrival wait. Greet our household gods with singing, Lend, O Lucifer, thy ray ; Why should light, so slowly springing, All our promised joys delay ? Founded npon the celebrated song of the Winchester School boys' " Dulce Domurn." It first appeared in the " Gentleman's Magazine " for March, 1796J under the signature of J. R. GLUGGITY GLUG. From the " Myrtle and the Vine.' 1 A JOLLY fat friar loved liquor good store, And he had drunk stoutly at supper ; He mounted his horse, in the night at the door And sat with his face to the crupper : Some rogue, quoth the friar, quite dead to remorse, Some thief, whom a halter will throttle, Some scoundrel has cut off the head of my horse, While I was engaged at the bottle, Which went gluggity, gluggity, glug, glug, glug. The tail of the steed pointed south on the dale, 'Twas the friar's road home, straight, and level ; But, when spurr'd, a horse follows his nose, not his tail, So he scamper'd due north, like a devil : MISCELLANEOUS SONGS. 287 This new mode of docking, the friar then said, I perceive doesn't make a horse trot ill ; And 'tis cheap for he never can eat off his head, While I am engaged at the bottle, Which goes gluggity, gluggity glug glug glug. The steed made a stop in a pond he had got, He was rather for drinking than grazing ; Quoth the friar, 'tis strange headless horses should trot, But to drink with their tails is amazing ! Turning round to see whence this phenomenon rose, In the pond fell this son of a pottle ; Quoth he, the head 's found, for I 'm under his nose I wish I were over a bottle, Which goes gluggity, gluggity glug glug glug. VARIETY. From the " Myrtle and the Vine. ASK you who is singing here, Who so blithe can thus appear ? I'm the child of joy and glee, A ud my name's Variety. MISCELLANEOUS SONGS. Ne'er have I a clouded face, Swift I change from place to place, Ever wand'ring, ever free, And my name's Variety. Like a bird that skims the air, Here and there, and every where, Sip my pleasures like a bee, Nothing's like Variety. Love's sweet passion warms my breast, Roving love but breaks the rest, One good heart's enough for me, Tho' my name's Variety. Crowded scenes and lovely grove, All by turns I can approve ; Follow, follow, follow me, Friend of life, Variety. THE TURNING OF THE WHEEL. From " The Convivial Songster.' THE wheel of life is turning quickly round, And nothing in this world, -of certainty is found, The midwife wheels us in, and death wheels us out, Good lack ! good lack ! how things are wheeled about. Some few aloft on fortune's wheel do go, And as they mount up high, the others tumble low, For this we all agree that fate at first did will, That this great wheel should never once stand still. The courtier turns to gain his private end, Till he's so giddy grown, he quite forgets his friend ; Prosperity oft times deceives the proud and vain, And wheels so fast, it turns them out again. Some turn to this, and that, and every way, And cheat, and scrape, for what can't purchase one poor day But this is far below the generous hearted man Who lives and makes the most of life he can. MISCELLANEOUS SONGS. 269 And thus we're wheeled about in life's short farce, Till we at last are wheel'd off, in a rumbling hearse ; The midwife wheels us in, and death wheels us out, Good lack ! good lack ! how things are wheel'd about ! WIFE, CHILDREN, AND FRIENDS. The Hon. R. W. SPENCER. One day when to Jove the black list was presented, The list of what Fate for each mortal intends, At the long string of ills a kind Goddess relented, And slipp'd in three blessings Wife, Children, and Friends, In vain surly Pluto declar'd he was cheated, And Justice divine could not compass its ends, The scheme of man's penance he swore was defeated, For Earth becomes Heaven, with Wife, Children, and Friends. The day-spring of youth still unclouded with sorrow, Alone on itself for enjoyment depends ; But drear is the twilight of age, if it borrow No warmth from the smiles of Wife, Children, and Friends. Let the breath of renown ever freshen and nourish The laurel, which o'er her dead favourite bends ; O'er me wave the willow, and long may it flourish, Bedew'd with the tears of Wife, Children, and Friends. IN THE SEASON OF THE YEAR WHEN I was bound apprentice, In famous Lincolnshire, Full well I served my master, For more than seven year; Till I took up to poaching, As you shall quickly hear. Oh ! it's my delight on a shiny night, In the season of the year. As me and my comrade Were setting of a snare, 'Twas then we spied the gamekeeper. For him we did not care ; R2 200 MISCELLANEOUS SONGS. For we can wrestle and fight, my boys, And jump o'er anywhere, For its my delight on a shiny night, In the season of the year. As me and my comrade, Were setting four or five, And taking of him up again, We caught the hare alive ; We took the hare alive, my boys, And thro' the woods did steer, Oh ! it's my delight on a shiny night, In the season of the year. We threw him o'er our shoulders, And then we trudged home, We took him to a neighbour's house, And sold him for a crown ; We sold him for a crown, my boys, But I did not tell you where, Oh ! it's my delight on a shiny night, In the season of the year. Success to every gentleman That lives in Lincolnshire, Success to every poacher, That wants to sell a hare. Bad luck to every gamekeeper That will not sell his deer, For it's my delight on a shiny night, In the season of the year. The date and origin of ibis song are unknown. Though it has not the slightest pretensions to literary merit, its subject, and the melody have long made it popular among the English peasantry " It has been sung," says Mr. Chappell, " by several hundred voices together, at the harvest homes of George the Fourth." I AM A FRIAR OF ORDERS GREY. J. O'KEKFE. From the Opera of " Merry Sherwood.' I AM a Friar of orders grey, And down in the valleys I take my way, I pull not blackberry, haw, or hip, Good store of venison fills my scrip ; MISCELLANEOUS SONGS. 291 My long bead-roll I merrily chant, Where'er I walk no money I want ; And why I'm so plump the reason I tell Who leads a good life is sure to live well. What baron or squire, Or knight of the shire, Lives half so well as a holy friar ? After supper of heaven I dream, But that is a pullet and clouted cream ; Myself, by denial, I mortify With a dainty bit of a warden pie ; I'm cloth'd in sackcloth for my sin ; With old sack wine I'm lined within : A chirping cup is my matin song, And the vesper bell is my bowl, ding dong. What baron or squire, Or knight of the shire, Lives half so well as a holy friar ? ALL'S WELL. THOMAS DIBDIK, Sung in the " British Fleet," an Opera by S. J. ARXOLD. DESERTED by the waning moon, When skies proclaim night's cheerless noon, On tower, or fort, or tented ground The sentry walks his lonely round ; And should a footstep haply stray Where caution marks the guarded way, Who goes there ? Stranger, quickly tell ; A friend the word. " Good night ;" " All 's well." Or sailing on the midnight deep, When weary messmates soundly sleep, The careful watch patrols the deck, To guard the ship from foes or wreck ; And while his thoughts oft homewards veer, Some friendly voice salutes his ear What cheer 1 Brother, quickly tell ; Above below. "Goodnight;" "All 'swell." MISCELLANEOUS SONGS. HOME, SWEET HOME. J. HOWARD PAYNE, in the opera of "Clari, the Maid of Milan.'' 'Mm pleasures and palaces though we may roam, Be it ever so humble there 's no place like home ! A charm from the skies seems to hallow us there, Which seek through the world, is ne'er met with elsewhere. Home ! home, sweet home ! There 's no place like home I An exile from home, splendour dazzles in vain ! Oh ! give me my lowly thatch'd cottage again ! The birds singing gaily that came at my call : Give me sweet peace of mind, oh ! dearer than all ! Home ! home, &c. HARK, THE CONVENT BELLS ARE RINGING. THOMAS HAYNES BAYLEY. Hark, the convent bells are ringing, And the nuns are sweetly singing ; Holy Virgin, hear our prayer. See the novice comes to sever, Every worldly tie for ever; Take, oh, take her to your care ! Still radiant gems are shining, Her jet black locks entwining, And her robes around her flowing, With many tints are glowing But all earthly rays are dim. Splendours brighter Now invite her, While thus we chant our Vesper hymn. Now the lovely maid is kneeling, With uplifted eyes appealing ; Holy Virgin, hear our prayer. See the abbess bending o'er her, Breathes the sacred vow before her ; Take, oh> take her to your care ! MISCELLANEOUS SONGS. 293 Her form no more possesses, Those dark luxuriant tresses. The solemn words are spoken, Each earthly is broken, And all earthly joys are dim. Splendours brighter, Now invite her, While thus we chant our Vesper hymn. ISLE OF BEAUTY,. FARE THEE WELL. THOMAS HAYNES BAYLET. SHADES of ev'ning close not o'er us, Leave our lonely bark awhile ; Morn, alas ! will not restore us Yonder dim and distant isle. Still my fancy can discover Sunny spots where friends may dwell ; Darker shadows round us hover, Isle of Beauty, Fare thee well ! 'Tis the hour when happy faces Smile around the taper's light ; Who will fill our vacant places 1 Who will sing our songs to-night ? Through the mist that floats above us Faintly sounds the vesper bell, Like a voice from those who love us, Breathing fondly, Fare thee well ! When the waves are round me breaking. As I pace the deck alone, And my eye in vain is seeking Some green leaf to rest upon. When on that dear land I ponder, Where my old companions dwell, Absence makes the heart grow fonder Isle of Beauty, Fare thee well ! 294 MISCELLANEOUS SONGS. THE SONG OF A SHIRT. THOMAS HOOD, died 1846. WITH fingers weary and worn, With eyelids heavy and red, A woman sat in unwomanly rags, Plying her needle and thread- Stitch ! stitch ! stitch ! In poverty, hunger, and dirt, And still with a voice of dolorous pitch She sang the " Song of a Shirt ! " " Work ! work ! work ! While the cock is crowing aloof ! And work work work, Till the stars shine through the roof ! It 's oh ! to be a slave Along with the barbarous Turk, Where woman has never a soul to save, If this is Christian work ! " Work work work Till the brain begins to swim ; Work work work Till the eyes are heavy and dim Seam, and gusset, and band, Band, and gusset, and seam, Till over the buttons I fall asleep, And sew them on in a dream ! " Oh ! Men, with Sisters dear ! Oh ! Men ! with Mothers and Wives ! It is not linen you 're wearing out, But human creatures' lives ! Stitch stitch stitch, In poverty, hunger, and dirt, Sewing at once, with a double thread, A Shroud as well as a Shirt. " But why do I talk of Death ? That Phantom of grisly bone, I hardly fear his terrible shape, It seems so like my own MISCELLANEOUS SOXGS. 295 It seems so like my own, Because of the fasts I keep, Oh ! God ! that bread should be so dear, And flesh and blood so cheap ! " Work work work ! My labour never flags ; And wh-at are its wages 1 A bed of straw, A crust of bread and rags. That shatter'd roof and this naked floor A table a broken chair And a wall so blank, my shadow I thank For sometimes falling there ! " Work work work ! From weary chime to chime, Work work work As prisoners work for crime ! Band, and gusset, and seam, Seam, and gusset, and band Till the heart is sick, and the brain benumb'd, As well as the weary hand. " Work work work, In the dull December light, And work work work, When the weather is warm and bright While underneath the eaves The brooding swallows cling, As if to show me their sunny backs And twit me with the spring. " Oh ! but to breathe the breath Of the cowslip and primrose sweet With the sky above my head, And the grass beneath my feet. For only one short hour To feel as I used to feel, Before I knew the woes of want And the walk that costs a meal ! 290 MISCELLANEOUS SONGS. " Oh but for one short hour ! A respite however brief ! No blessed leisure for Love or Hope, But only time for Grief ! A little weeping would ease my heart, But in their briny bed My tears must stop, for every drop Hinders needle and thread." With fingers weary and worn, With eyelids heavy and red, A Woman sat in unwomanly rags, Plying her needle and thread Stitch ! stitch ! stitch ! In poverty, hunger, and dirt, And still with a voice of dolorous pitch, Would that its tone could reach the Rich ! She sang this " Song of the Sbirt ! " DEAR IS MY LITTLE NATIVE VALE. SAMUEL ROGERS. DEAR is my little native vale, The ring-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 nut 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, shall never fail, Shall bind me to my native vale. MISCELLANEOUS SONGS. 29? MELANCHOLY. SAMUEL ROGERS. Go ! you may call it madness, folly ; You shall not chase my gloom away. There 's such a charm in melancholy, I would not, if I could, be gay. Oh, if you knew the pensive pleasure That fills my bosom when I sigh, You would not rob me of a treasure Monarchs are too poor to buy. THE TAMBOURINE SONG. CHARLES MAC KAY. I LOVE my little native isle, Mine emerald in a golden deep ; My garden where the roses smile, My vineyard where the tendrils creep. How sweetly glide the summer hours, When twilight shows her silver sheen ; And youths and maids from all the bowers Come forth to play the Tambourine. At morn the fisher spreads his sail Upon our calm encircling sea ; The farmer labours in the vale, Or tends his vine and orange tree. But soon as lingering sunset throws O'er woods and fields a deeper green, And all the west in crimson glows, They gather to the Tambourine. We love our merry native song, Our moss-grown seats in lonely nooks, Our moonlight walks the beach along, For interchange of words and looks. MISCELLANEOUS SONGS. When toil is done, and day is spent, Sweet is the dance with song between ; The jest for harmless pleasure meant, And tinkle of the Tambourine. My native isle, my land of peace My father's home, my mother's grave- May evermore thy joys increase, And plenty o'er thy corn-fields wave ! May storms ne'er vex thine ocean surf, Nor war pollute thy valleys green ; Nor fail the dance upon thy turf, Nor music of the Tambourine. THAT SONG, AGAIN! THOMAS K. HEEVEY. THAT Song, again ! its wailing strain Brings back the thoughts of other hours, The forms I ne'er may see again, And brightens all life's faded flowers! In mournful murmurs, o'er mine ear Remembered echoes seem to roll, And sounds I never more can hear, Make music in my lonely soul ! That swell again! now full and high, The tide of feeling flows along, And many a thought that claims a sigh, Seems mingling with the magic song! The forms I loved and loved in vain, The hopes I nursed to see them die, With fleetness, brightness, through my brain, In phantom beauty, wander by! Tli en touch the lyre, my own dear love! My soul is like a troubled sea, And turns from all below above, In fondness, to the harp and thee ! . MISCELLANEOUS 80NGS. 299 BE STILL, BE STILL, POOR HUMAN HEART. ELBANOHA L. MONTAGU (Mrs. T. K. HEEVET). Be still, be still, poor human Heart, What fitful fever shakes thee now ? The Earth's most lovely things depart And what art thou? Thy spring than earth's doth sooner fade, Thy blossoms first with poison fill; To sorrow born for suffering made Poor Heart J be still. Thou lookest to the clouds, they fleet; Thou turnest to the waves, they falter , The flower that decks the shrine, though sweet, Dies on its altar : And thou, more changeful than the cloud, More restless than the wandering rill, Like that lone flower in silence bowed. Poor Heart ! be still. THE OLD MAN'S SONG OF THE OLD YEAR'S DYING. ELEAXORA L. HERTEY. To sleep, to sleep! 'tis the old year's dying, Let me sleep till he be dead ; Comfort and Hope ami Time are flying Gladness and Youth are fled. Year after year has been ushered in, So many are lost there are few to win But enough for sorrow and toil and sin : Let me sleep while the old. year dies! I like not the passing away from earth Of the thing we have watched so long; I cannot welcome the new year's birth With the old year's dying song! Wake me at morn when the dust is flung On the ancient head that so late was young: If rest may be where the soul is wrung, Let me sleep while the old year dies! 300 MISCELLANEOUS SOSGS. Rivers of tears have flowed to him Strong tides of the soul's despair; Many a passionate prayer and hymn. Been poured on his midnight air. Why have we wished that his days were o'er, When the life that goes with him returns no more? I shall miss his weary step on the floor: Let me sleep while the old year dies ! Wild pulses are playing in many a heart With the hopes of the dawn to come; For they know not yet of the nights that part What the morrow shall never biing home. Their new year friend as the old they greet; But mine are the memories sad, though sweet, That pass the new guest in life's crowded street: Let me sleep while the old year dies ! My heart is bowed, and my eyes are dim, And take not the light they gave: Then, call me not up to make merry with him Who treads on an old man's grave! In the morning Light of the life-long year The outer mists themselves look clear ; But / to the SHADOW am all too near, Let me sleep while the old year dies ! In the cave of the earth, down fathoms below The greenness whereon we stand, 'Tis said that a central fire doth glow A sealess and burning land: If deep in the heart such fires abide, And the vallies stretch and the currents glide, That see no greenness and feel no tide, Then sleep while the old year dies ! Perchance, while gleams of the future's light On his forehead the new year wears, Ye may not care how the long dread night Falls down on the old grey hairs : But the veil of the grave-clouds gathers near, And the long death-silence lies close to mine ear. Oh ! I have no joy in the coming year, Let me sleep while the old year dies! MISCELLANEOUS SONGS. 301 THE FOUNDING OF THE BELL. CHABLBS MACKAF. From " Legends of the Isles," 1845. Hark ! how the furnace pants and roars, Hark ! how the molten metal pours, As, hursting from its iron doors, It glitters in the sun. Now through the ready mould it flows, Seething and hissing as it goes, And filling every crevice up As the red vintage fills the cup : Hurra ! the work is done ! Unswathe him now. Take off each stay That binds him to his couch of clay, And let him struggle into day : Let chain and pulley run, With yielding crank and steady rope, Until he rise from rim to cope, In rounded beauty, ribb'd in strength, Without a flaw in all his length : Hurra ! the work is done ! The clapper on his giant side Shall ring no peal for blusliing bride, For birth, or death, or new year-tide, Or festival begun. A nation's joy alone shall be The signal for his revelry ; And for a nation's woes alone His melancholy tongue shall moan : Hurra ! the work is done ! IV. Borne on the gale, deep-toned and clear, His long loud [summons shall we hear, When Statesmen to their country dear Their mortal race have run : 302 MISCELLANEOUS SONGS. When mighty monarohs yield their breath, And patriots sleep the sleep of death, Then shall he raise his voice of gloom, And peal a requiem o'er their tomb : Hurra ! the work is done ! v. Should foemen lift their haughty hand, And dare invade us where we stand, Fast by the altars of our land We'll gather every one, And he shall ring the loud alarm, To call the multitudes to arm, From distant field and forest brown, And teeming alleys of the town : Hurra, the work is done ! VI. And as the solemn boom they hear, Old men shall grasp the idle spear, Laid by to rust for many a year, And to the struggle run ; Young men shall leave their toils or books, Or turn to swords their pruning hooks ; And maids have sweetest smiles for those Who battle with their country's foes : Hurra, the work is done! VII. And when the cannon's iron throat Shall bear the news to dells remote, And trumpet blast resound the note, That victory is won; When down the wind the banner drops, And bonfires blaze on mountain tops, His sides shall glow with fierce delight, And ring glad peals from morn to night: Hurra ! the work is done ! VIII. But of such scenes forbear to tell May never War awake this bell To sound the tocsin or the knell. Hush'd be the alarum gun ! MISCELLANEOUS SONGS. 30.'* Sheath 'd be the sword! and may his voice But call the nations to rejoice That War his tatter'd flag has furled, And vanished from a wiser world: Hurra ! the work is done ! Still may he ring when struggles cease, Still may he ring for joy's increase, For progress in the arts of of peace, And friendly trophies won. When rival nations join their hands, When plenty crowns the happy lands, When knowledge gives new blessings birth, And freedom reigns o'er all the earth : Hurra ! the work is done ! THE BRAVE OLD OAK. H. F. CHOKLEY. A SONG to the Oak, the brave old Oak, Who hath ruled in the green wood long, Here 's health and renown to his broad green crown. And his fifty arms so strong. There 's fear in his frown, when the sun goes down, And the fire in the west fades out, And he showeth his might on a wild midnight, When the storm through his branches shout. Then here 's to the Oak, the brave old Oak, Who stands in his pride alone, And still nourish he a hale green tree, When a hundred years are gone. In the days of old when the spring with cold, Had brightened his branches grey, Through the grass at his feet, crept maidens sweet, To gather the dew of May. 304 MISCELLANEOUS SONGS. And on that day to the rebeck gay They frolick'd with lovesome swains ; They are gone, they are dead, in the churchyard laid, But the tree it still remains. Then here 's, &c. He saw the rare times, when the Christmas chimes Were merry sounds to hear, When the squire's wide hall, and the cottage small Were filled with good English cheer. Now gold hath the sway we all obey, And a ruthless king is he, But he never shall send our ancient friend, To be tossed on the stormy sea. Then here 's, &c. TUBAL CAIN. CHARLES MACKAY. OLD Tubal Cain was a man of might, In the days when Earth was young ; By the fierce red light of his furnace bright, The strokes of his hammer rung ; And he lifted high his brawny hand, On the iron glowing clear, Till the sparks rush'd out in scarlet showers, As he fashion'd the sword and spear. And he sang, " Hurrah for my handiwork ! Hurrah for the spear and sword ! Hurrah for the hand that shall wield them well, For he shall be King and Lord ! " To Tubal Cain came many a one, As he wrought by his roaring fire, And each one pray'd for a strong steel blade, As the crown of his desire ; And he made them weapons sharp and strong, Till they shouted loud for glee, And gave him gifts of pearls and gold, And spoils of the forest free. MISCELLANEOUS SONGS. 305 And they sang, " Hurrah for Tubal Cain, Who hath given us strength anew ! Hurrah for the smith ! hurrah for the fire ! And hurrah for the metal true ! " But a sudden change came o'er his heart Ere the setting of the sun ; And Tubal Cain was filled with pain For the evil he had done ! He saw that men, with rage and hate, Made war upon their kind, That the land was red with blood they shed, In their lust for carnage blind. And he said, " Alas ! that ever I made, Or that skill of mine should plan, The spear and the sword for men whose joy Is to slay their fellow-man !" And for many a day old Tubal Cain Sat brooding o'er his woe ; And his hand forebore to smite the ore, And his furnace smoulder'd low; But he rose at last with a cheerful face, And a bright courageous eye, And bared his strong right arm for work, While the quick flames mounted high : And he sang, " Hurrah for my handiwork ! " And the red sparks lit the air " Not alone for the blade, was the bright steel made ;" And he fashion'd the first ploughshare. And men, taught wisdom from the past, In friendship joined their hands, Hung the sword in the hall, the spear on the wall, And plough'd the willing lands ; And sang, " Hurrah for Tubal Cain, Our stanch good friend is he ; And for the ploughshare and the plough, To him our praise shall be. T 306 MISCELLANEOUS SONGS. But while Oppression lifts its head, Or a tyrant would be lord, Though we may thank him for the plough, We '11 not forget the sword." SONG FOR TWILIGHT. BABBV CORNWALL. Hide me, twilight Air ! Hide me from thought, from care, From all things, foul or fair, Until to-morrow ! To-night 1 strive no more , No more my soul shall soar : Come, Sleep, and shut the door 'Gainst Pain and Sorrow ! If I must see through dreams, Be mine Elysian gleams, Be mine by morning streams To watch and wander ! So may my spirit cast (Serpent-like) off the past, And my free soul at last Have leave to ponder ! And, should' st thou 'scape control, Ponder on love, sweet Soul, On joy, the end and goal Of all endeavour ! But, if earth's pains will rise, (As damps will seek the skies,) Then, Night, seal thou mine eyes, In sleep, for ever ! MISCELLANEOUS SONGS. 307 THE OLD ARM CHAIR. ^ELIZA COOK. I LOVE it, I love it ! and who shall dare To chide me for loving that old arm-chair ? 1 've treasured it long as a sainted prize, I Ve bedew'd it with tears, I 've embalm'd it with sighs. 'Tis bound by a thousand bands to my heart ; Not a tie will break, not a link will start ; Would you know the spell ? a mother sat there ! And a sacred thing is that old arm-chair. In childhood's hour I linger'd near The hallow'd seat with listening ear ; And gentle words that mother would give To fit me to die, and teach me to live. She told me that shame would never betide With Truth for my creed, and God for my guide ; She taught me to lisp my earliest prayer, As I knelt beside that old arm-chair. I sat, and watch 'd her many a day, When her eye grew dim, and her locks were grey ; And I almost worshipp'd her when she smiled, And turn'd from her Bible to bless her child. Years roll'd on, but the last one sped My idol was shatter'd, my earth-star fled ! I learnt how much the heart can bear, When I saw her die in her old arm-chair. 'Tis past, tis past ! but I gaze on it now, With quiv'ring breath and throbbing brow : 'Twas there she nursed me, 'twas there she died, And memory flows with lava tide. Say it is folly, and deem me weak, Whilst scalding drops start down my cheek ; But I love it, I love it, and cannot tear My soul from a mother's old arm-chair. 308 MISCELLANEOUS SONOS. THE IVY GREEN. CHARLES DICKENS. OH ! a dainty plant is the Ivy green, That creepeth o'er ruins old ! Of right choice food are his meals I ween, In his cell so lone and cold. The walls must be crumbled, the stones decay'd, To pleasure his dainty whim ; And the mould'ring dust that years have made, Is a merry meal for him. Creeping where no life is seen, A rare old plant is the Ivy green. Fast he stealeth on, though he wears no wings, And a stanch old heart has he ! How closely he twineth, how tight he clings, To his friend the huge oak tree ! And slily he traileth along the ground, And his leaves he gently waves, And he joyously twines and hugs around The rich mould of dead men's graves. Creeping where no life is seen, A rare old plant is the Ivy green. Whole ages have fled, and their works decay'd, And nations scatter 'd been ; But the stout old Ivy shall never fade From its hale and hearty green. The brave old plant in its lonely days, Shall fatten upon the past : For the stateliest building man can raise, Is the Ivy's food at last. Creeping where no life is seen, A rare old plant is the Ivy green. MISCELLANEOUS SONGS. SOU THE WILD CHERRY-TREE. BARRY CORNWALL. OH, there never was yet so pretty a thing, By racing river or bubbling spring, Nothing that ever so merrily grew, Up from the ground when the skies were blue, Nothing so fresh nothing so free As thou my wild, wild Cherry-tree! Jove ! how it danced in the gusty breeze ! Jove ! how it frolicked among the trees ! Dashing the pride of the poplar down, Stripping the the thorn of his hoary crown ! Oak or ash what matter to fhee ! 'Twas the same to my wild, wild Cherry-tree ! Never at rest, like a thing that's young, Abroad to the winds its arms it flung, Shaking its rich and crowned head. Whilst I stole up for its berries red Beautiful berries ! beautiful tree ! Hurrah, for the wild, wild Cherry-tree ! Back I fly to the days gone by, And I see thy branches against the sky, I see on the grass thy blossoms shed, I see (and I ravish) thy berries red, And I shout like the tempest loud and free, Hurrah, for the wild, wild Cherry-tree ! THE BUD IS ON THE BOUGH. FRANCIS BENNOCH. " THE bud is on the bough, And the blossom on the tree ; " But the bud and the blossom Bring no joyousness to me. Wall'd up within the city's gloom, No pleasure can I know, But like a caged linnet sing To chase away my woe ! 31 MISCELLANEOUS SONGS. The bud will grow a blossom, The blossom will grow pale, And as they die the fruit will spring, But fall when o'er the vale Stern winter marches with his train In every wind that blows, And I, unripe, with ripest fruit, May in the dust repose. But Spring upon the seed will breathe, The seed become a tree, And on the tree so beautiful Shall bud and blossom be ; And shall I know a second Spring 1 Yes ! brighter far than they ; When age puts on the blush of youth, And youth shall not decay ! FAIR FLOWER ! FAIR FLOWER ! W. T. MONCRIEFF. FAIR flower ! fair flower ! Though thou seem'st so proudly growing, Though thou seem'st so sweetly blowing, With all heaven's smiles upon thee. The blight has fallen on thee, Every hope of life o'erthrowing, Fair flower ! fair flower ! Dear flower ! dear flower ! Vainly we our sighs breathe o'er thee, No fond breath can e'er restore thee ; Vainly our tears are falling, Thou 'rt past the dew's recalling ; We shall live but to deplore thee, Dear flower ! dear flower ! Poor flower ! poor flower ! No aid now to health can win thee ; The fatal canker is within thee, Turning thy young heart's gladness To mourning and to madness ! Soon will the cold tomb enshrine thee, Poor flower ! poor flower ! MISCELLANEOUS SONGS. 31 I Wan flower ! wan flower ! Oh ! how sad to see thee lying, Meekly calmly thus, though dying ; Sweeter, in thy decaying, Than all behind thee staying ! But vain, alas ! is now our sighing, Lost flower ! lost flower ! THE NIGHTS. BAERY COBNWALL. OH, the Summer Night Has a smile of light, And she sits on a sapphire throne ; Whilst the sweet Winds load her With garlands of odour, From the bud to the rose o'er-blown ! But the Autumn Night Has a piercing sight, And a step both strong and free ; And a voice for wonder, Like the wrath of the Thunder, When he shouts to the stormy sea ! And the Winter Night Is all cold and white, And she singeth a song of pain ; Till the wild bee hummeth, And warm spring cometh, When she dies in a dream of rain ! Oh, the Night brings sleep To the green woods deep ; To the bird of the woods its nest To care soft hours ; To life new powers ; To the sick and the weary, Rest ! 312 MISCELLANEOUS SONGS. THE BUGLE SONG. ALFBED TENNYSON. From the " Princess." THE splendour falls on castle walls, And snowy summits old in story, The long light shakes across the lakes And the wild cataract leaps in glory. Blow, Bugle blow, set the wild echoes flying, Blow Bugle, answer echoes, dying, dying, dying. Oh hark ! oh hear ! how thin and clear, And thinner, clearer, farther going; Oh sweet and far from cliff and scar, The horns of Elfland faintly blowing ! Blow, let us hear the purple glens replying, Blow Bugle, answer echoes, dying, dying, dying. Oh love, they die in yon rich sky! They faint on hill, on field, on river; Our echoes roll from soul to soul, And grow for ever and for ever. Blow, Bugle blow, set the wild echoes flying, And answer, echoes answer, dying, dying, dying. To be Published March 31st, 1851, and continued Monthly. NATIONAL ILLUSTRATED LIBRARY EACH TO CONTAIN THREE HUNDRED AND TWENTY PAGES, AND FROM 50 TO 100 ENGRAVINGS. PRICE HALF-A-CROWN.-BEAUTIFULLY BOUND OFFICE OF THE ILLUSTRATED LONDON NEWS, 198 STRAND. TIHE Age in which we live is essentially of a practical character, and the -* predominant principle influencing all classes is a marked desire for cheapness. Cheapness, however, is too often found without excellence, and hence this proposition to supply a deficiency at present existing in the popular literature of this country. For some time past the projectors of the present undertaking have felt inter- ested in watching the result of an experiment simultaneously made by the London, Edinburgh, and Dublin Book Trades, and having seen that cheap, and occasionally indifferent literature, "got up" in a most inferior manner, will sell, they feel assured that good and judiciously selected works, having the additional advantage of COPIOUS ILLUSTRATION, being produced with the utmost attention to general excellence, and published at the moderate price fixed upon, cannot fail to secure extensive patronage from the Reading Public. The principal upon which they can undertake to supply good books at a low rate is, that being themselves the actual producers, they are enabled to save the public the expense of all intermediate profit. As a practical explanation of the above views, it is, therefore, proposed to publish, on the 31st of March next, THREE SAMPLE VOLUMES of the "NATIONAL ILLUSTRATED LIBRARY." These volumes will be widely different in character, in order that the public may form some idea of the extent and variety of the series generally. Afterwards, one volume will be issued monthly. Each volume will contain at least 320 crown octavo pages, illustrated according to the re- quirements of the subject matter, by from 50 to 100 illustrations, and will be strongly bound in ornamental cloth boards. Thus, for thirty-shillings a-year, in the course of a short period, a Library of great extent and interest may be formed, which shall furnish materials for instruction and amusement during the course of a long life. The chief advantages which this series of works will present over all others more especially the closely printed double column editions, and the new fashioned, though equally objectionable, Shilling Books, with their numerous errors, thin paper, and flimsy binding, are the following : 1. A carefully Revised Text. 4. A new and legible Type. 2. Judicious Explanatory Foot Notes. 5. Good Paper and Printing. 3. Engravings really Illustrating the Text. 6. Strong neat Binding. A portion of the Works intended to be published under the title of the "NATIONAL ILLUSTRATED LIBRARY" will consist of carefully edited reprints of such writers as present a true vitality in their pages including many of TO THE READING PUBLIC. those great masterpieces of the human mind, which having survived heyond the generation for which they were written, are now universally recognised as worthy to flourish so long as the English language is spoken and an acquaintance with which is indispensably necessary to all who pretend to a taste for English literature. The series will also comprise original works, especially written by competent authors, upon all subjects of general interest, extending to those arising out of political movements, or from social advancement, which so frequently engross the national attention. These latter topics will be promptly treated of, that the purchasers of this Library may be placed at once on a level with those who devote themselves to the gathering such information. In issuing the series, there will be no formal arrangement, but volumes on general literature, history, biography, travels, popular science, and fiction will follow each other : the whole comprising such a variety of illustrated works as shall form a complete and compendious Library for the Reading Public. Many among those to whom this prospectus is addressed must have observed that one great feature of the present period is the conveyance of instruction by appealing to the eye. It will be readily understood that whole pages of narrative and long abstruse descriptions may be condensed into an illustration to be com- prehended at a glance. Pictures fix indelibly on the mind circumstances that might otherwise escape the memory ; and a liveliness of attention is thus excited and a relief afforded to the mental faculties which is as agreeable to adults as to children. There can be no doubt that the pencil is destined for the future to perform as prominent a part in our popular literature as the pen, or that the diffusion of knowledge has already been greatly augmented by its powers. If it be thought that the foregoing professions are too diffuse and too difficult of accomplishment, it may be said, that the present idea is strictly in accordance with the operation of the general progress of Literature, since it will be found that every generation has had its wants similarly provided for. The present undertaking, however, is wider in its' scope, more profound in its aim, and more profuse of its embellishments, illustrations, and editing, than any former project, and is strictly in accordance with the amazing progress that has been made in every department of Literature and Art, and their mechanical developments, during the last portion of this half-century. In carrying oat their undertaking it will be the endeavour of the projectors to bestow upon Half-crown Volumes for the many the same typographical accuracy, and the same artistic ability, hitherto almost exclusively devoted to high priced books for the few. Supported by the co-operation of the Reading Public, no pains will be spared to provide every English home with a complete treasury of knowledge and entertainment in the volumes of the "NATIONAL ILLUSTRATED LIBRARY." 246 [Specimen Page.] BOSWELL S LIFE OF JOHNSON. [1703 advanced towards us, he announced his awful approach to me, somewhat in the manner of an actor in the part of Horatio, when he addresses Hamleton the appearanceof his father's ghost, " Look my Lord, it comes." I found that I had a very perfect idea of Johnson's figure, from the portrait of him painted by Sir Joshua Reynolds soon after he had pub- lished his Dictionary, in the attitude of sitting in his easy chair in deep meditation ; which was the first picture his friend did for him, which Sir Joshua very kindly presented to me, and from which an engraving has been made for this work. Mr. Davies mentioned my name, and respect- fully introduced me to him. I was much agitated ; and recollecting his prejudice against the Scotch, of which 1 had heard much, I said to Davies, "Don't tell where I come from." "From Scotland," cried Davies, roguishly. " Mr. Johnson (said 1), I do indeed come from Scot- land, but I cannot help it." I am willing to flatter myself that 1 meant thia as light pleasantry to soothe and conciliate him, and not as a humiliating abasement at the expense of my country. But however that might be, this speech was somewhat unlucky ; for with that quickness <>{' wit for which he was so remarkable, he seized the expression "come from Scotland," which I used in the sense of being of that country ; and, as if I had said that 1 had come away from it, or left it, retorted "That, Sir, 1 find, is what a very great many of your countrymen cannot help." [Specimen Paj/ej TITE BOOK OF ENGLISH SONGS. 35 AKEN lords and ladies gay, On the mountain dawns the day ; All the jolly chase is here, With hawk, and horse, and hunting spear. Hounds are in their couples yelling, Hawks are whistling, horns are knelling ; Merrily, merrily, mingle they, " Waken lords and ladies gay." Waken lords and ladies gay, The mist has left the mountain grey, Springlets in the dawn are streaming, Diamonds in the brake are gleaming, And foresters have busy been, To trace the Buck in thicket green ; Now we come to chaunt our lay, " Waken lords and ladies gay." 308 [Specimen Page.'] RESEARCHES IN NINEVEH. vli OP KHORSABAD. Far away a thousand miles from the highways of modem commerce, and the tracks of ordinary travel lay a sand- enshrouded city deeply buried in a half- desert Turkish Province, with no certain trace of its place of sepulchre. Vague tradition said that it was hidden somewhere near the river Tigris ; but for full two thousand years its known existence in the world was as a mere name ; a word. That name suggested the idea of an ancient capital of fabulous splendour and magnitude ; a congrega- tion of palaces and other dwellings encompassed by walls and ramparts, vast but scarcely real. Old writers men who lived a thousand years before our times, yet a thousand years after many of the things they tell about spoke of the buried city as one in their days known only by tradition, and as one whose fate had long been sealed blotted out of the world it had once helped AWTRT4K MOM BUST OPINIONS OF MACAULAY AND CARLYLE ON "BOSWELL'S LIFE OF JOHNSON." That the uninitiated may form some idea of the entertaining character of BOSWELL'S LIFE OF JOHNSON, critical opinions of the work from the pens of two of our greatest living writers, viz., Macaulay and Carlyle, are subjoined : Mr. Macaulay thus expresses himself " The Life of Johnson is assuredly a great, a very great work. Homer is not more decidedly the first of Dramatists, Demosthenes is not more decidedly the first of orators, than Boswell is the first of Biographers. He has no second. He has distanced all hi competitors so decidedly that it is not worth while to place them. Eclipse is first, and the rest nowhere. " We are not sure that there is in the whole history of the human intellect so strange a phenomenon as this book. Many of the greatest men that ever lived have written biography. Boswell was one of the smallest men that ever lived, and he has beaten them all- * * * He was a slave, proud of his servitude, a Paul Pry, convinced that his own curiosity and garrulity were virtues, an unsafe companion who never scrupled to repay the most liberal hospitality by the basest violation of confidence, a man without delicacy, with- out shame, without sense enough to know when he was hurting the feelings of others or when he was exposing himself to derision ; and because he was all this, he has in an important department of literature, immeasurably surpassed such writers as Tacitus, Clarendon, Alfieri, and his own idol Johnson. * * " Johnson grown old, Johnson in the fulness of his fame and in the enjoyment of a com- petent fortune, is better known to us than any other man in history. Every thing about him, his coat, his wig, his figure, his face, his scrofula, his St. Vitus's dance, his rolling walk, his blinking eye, the outward signs which too clearly marked his approbation of his dinner, his insatiable appetite for fish-sauce and veal-pie with plums, his inextinguishable thirst for tea, his trick of touching the posts as he walked, his mysterious practice of treasuring up scraps of orange-peel, his morning slumbers, his midnight disputations, his contortions, his mutterings, his gruutings, his puffings, his vigorous, acute, and ready eloquence, his sarcastic wit, his vehemence, his insolence, his fits of tempestuous rage, his queer inmates, old Mr. Levett and blind Mrs. Williams, the cat Hodge, and the negro Frank, all are familiar to us as the objects by which we have been surrounded from childhood." Speaking of BOSWELL'S LIFE OF JOHNSON Mr. Carlyle says " That loose-flowing, careless-looking work of his, is as a picture by one of Nature's own Artists ; the best possible resemblance of a Reality ; like the very image thereof in a clear mirror. Which indeed it was* let but the mirror be clear, this is the great point; the picture must and will be genuine. How the babbling Bozzy, inspired only by love, and the recognition and vision which love can lend, epitomises nightly the words of Wisdom, the deeds and aspects of Wisdom, and so, by little and little, unconsciously works together for us a whole Johntoniad; a more free, perfect, sunlit and spirit-speaking likeness, than for many centuries had been drawn by man of man ! Scarcely since the days of Homer has the feat been equalled ; indeed in many senses, this also is a kind of Heroic Poem. The fit Odyssey of our unheroic age was to be written, not sung ; of a Thinker, not of a Fighter ; and (for want of a Homer) by the first open soul that might offer, looked such even through the organs of a Boswell. * "As for the BOOK itself, questionless the universal favour entertained for it is well merited. In worth as a Book we have rated it beyond any other product of the eighteenth century. * * Which of us but remembers, as one of the sunny spots in his existence, the dav when he opened these airy volumes, fascinating him by a true natural magic. It was as if the curtains of the Past were drawn aside, and we looked mysteriously into a kindred Country, where dwelt our Fathers; inexpressibly dear to us, but which b.adsej.-ined. . (or ever hidden from our eyes." stMA in Sllustmtc FIRST VOLUME OF "BOSWELL'S LIFE OF JOHNSON.' Frontispiece Dr. Johnson at Lord Chester- field's. Title. Portrait of Dr. Johnson after Reynolds. Portrait and Autograph of James Boswell, Esq. Portrait of Edmund Malone. Birth-place of Dr. Johnson, at Lichfield. Lichfield Grammar School, 1725. Portrait of Sir Joshua Reynolds. Initial Letter. St. Mary's, Lichfield. Portrait of Michael Johnson. Parlour at Johnson's Birth-place. Dr. Sacheverel Preaching. Portrait of Mr. Hector. Cornelius Ford, from Hogarth's "Modem Midnight Conversation." Stourbridge School, Worcestershire. The Hall of Pembroke College, Oxford. Christ Church, Meaduw. Portrait of Mr. Jorden. Dr. Johnson's Koom in Pembroke College. General View of Lichfield. Monument to Gilbert Walmesley in Lich- field Cathedral. Dr. Johnson's Residence at Birmingham. Portrait of Edward Cave, projector of the " Gentleman's M agazine. ' Portrait of Mrs. Johnson. View of Ediall House, Dr. Johnson's Academy, near Lichfield. Portrait of the Rev. Mr. Colson. Dr. Johnson's Lodgings in Exeter Street, Strand. View in Greenwich Park, 1737. Dr. Johnson's Lodging, next to the Golden Hart, Church Street, Greenwich. Fac simile of part of the original MSS. of " IBKMK." Saint John's Gate, Clerkenwell, 1737. Dr. Johnson's Lodging in Castle Street. Portraits of Dodsley the Publisher, and Richardson the Novelist Portrait of W. Hogarth. Portrait of Dr. Birch. Portrait of Richard Savage. Portrait of Lady Mucclesfield. Portrait of Lord I .mat. Portrait of Lord Chesterfield. Dr. Johnson's Residence in Gough Square. Interior of Drury Lane Theatre, 1749. Portraits of Garrick, Barry, Mrs. Gibber, and Mrs. Pritchard, the principal Actors in the Tragedy of " IRENE." The Green Room of Drury Lane Theatre. Portraits of Mrs. Ann Williams. Portrait of Mr. Francis Barber. Monument to Elizabeth, Wife of Dr. Johnson, at Bromley Church, Kent. Portrait of Bennet Langton. Portrait of Topham Beauclerk. Portrait of Dr. Joseph Warton. Portrait of Colley Gibber. Portrait of Rev. Thomus Warton. View of Ellstield, near Oxford. Ruins of the Abbeys of Oseney and Rewley, near Oxford. Portrait of Collins the Poet. Portrait of Millar the Bookseller. Portrait of Dr. Burney. Portrait of Mr. Slrachun. View of Blackf'riar's Bridge. Portrait of Mr. Joseph Buretti. Portrait of Lord Bute. View of the Garrison at Plymouth. Portrait of Thomas Sheridan, Portrait of Thomas Davies, the Actor and Bookseller. Dr. Johnson's Chambers, Inner Temple Lane. The Mitre Tavern, Fleet Street. Interior View of the Mitre. Scene of the Cock Lane Ghost's Exploits. Portrait of Oliver Goldsmith. The Temple Stairs. View of Greenwich Hospital, the Park, &c. View of the Pool and the Isle of Dogs. Fleet Street in 1763. Interior of Harwich Church. View of Langton Hall, Lincolnshire. The Turk's Heud, Gerrard Street, Soho. Portrait of Dr. Percy, Bishop of Dromore. Portraits of Mr. and Mrs. Thrale. Town residence of Mr. and Mrs. Thrale in Southwnrk. Country House ol Mr. and Mrs. Thrule at Strcatharu. National Illustrated Library. In Monthly Volumes, 2s. 64. each. Published thu day, r/ BOSWELL'S LIFE OF JOHNSOIC, Volumo the First. 6$ Engravings. BOOK OF ENGLISH SONGS, \ From the 16th to the 19th Century. 53 Engravings. ( THE BURIED CITY OF THE EAST NINEVEH. 57 Engraving*, UC SOUTHERN REGIONAL LIBRARY FACILITY A 000140833 5 National Illustrated Library. Volumes in Preparation. On April SOM, BOSWELL'S LIFE OF JOHNSON, Volume the Second. To bt followed by : L, ARCTIC & ANTARCTIC DISCOVERY. THE MORMONS. FOOTSTEPS OF COMMERCE. L Price 2s. 6d, lach, Oh